George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 
FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL  FLOWERS 


ire  Room 


O.  3/tf3> 


a 


STRANGE 


HI- 


STORY 


BY  SIR  E.  BULWER  LYTTON.      i 


•  ^  e*  *>  oh>^ 


A  STRANGE  .STORY, 


BY 


SIR  E.  BULVER  LYTTOI, 


SECOND    EDITION. 


MOBILE  : 

S.  H.  GOF/iy.EL  &  CO. 

1863. 


415312 


I 


«L$\\-«rfk 


I 

A  STRANGE  STORY. 


■ 


CHAPTER  I. 


I.\  the  year  18 —  I  settled  as  a  physician  at  one  of  the  wealthiest 
of  our  greal  English  towns,  which  1  will  designate  by  the  initial 

L .     1  was  yei  young,  bul  I  had  acquired  souk-  reputation  by 

a  professional  work  which  is,  1  believe,  still  among  the  received 
authorities  on  the  subjecl  of  which  it  treats.  1  had  studied  at 
Edinburgh  and  at  Paris,  and  had  borne  away  from  both  those  il- 
lustrious schools  of  medicine  whatever  guarantees  for  future  dis- 
tinction the  praise  of  professors  may  concede  to  the  ambition  of 
students.  On  becoming  a  member  of  the  College  of  Physicians,  1 
made  a  tour  of  the  principal  cities  of  Europe,  taking  letters  of  in- 
troduction to  eminent  medical  men;  and,  gathering  from  many 
theories  and  modes  of  treatment  hints  to  enlarge  the  foundations  of 
unprejudiced  and  comprehensive  practice,  I  had  resolved  to  fix  my 
residence  in  London,  lmt  before  this  preparatory  tour 
was  completed  my  resolve  was  changed  by  one  of  those  unexpected 
events  which  determine  the  fate  man  in  vain  would  work  out  for 
himself,  In  passing  through  the  Tyrol,  on  my  way  into  the  north 
of  Italy,  1  found  in  a  small  inn,  remote  from  medical  attendance, 
Qglish  traveler — seized  with  acute  inflammation  of  the  lungs, 
and  in  a  state  of  imminent  danger.  1  devoted  myself  to  him  night 
day,  and,  perhaps  more  through  careful  nursing  than  active 
remedies,  i  had  the  happiness  to  effect  his  complete  recovery.  The 
traveler  proved  to  be  Julius  Faber,  a  physician  of  great  distinc- 
tion— contented  to  reside,  where  he  was  born,  in  the' provincial  city 
of  L ,  but  whose  reputation  as  a  profound  and  original  patho- 
logist was  widely  spread,  and  whose  writings  had  formed  no  unim- 
portant part  of  my  special  studies.  It  was  during  a  short  holiday 
excursion,  from  which  he  was  about  to  return  with  renovated  vigor, 
that  he  had  been  thus  stricken  down.  The  patient  so  accidentally 
met  with  became  the  founder  of  my  professional  fortunes.  Hecon- 
ceived  a  warm  attachment  for  me ;   perhaps  the  more  affectionate 


415312 


4  A    STRANGE    STORV. 

because  he  was  a  childless  bachelor,  and  the  nephew  who  would 
succeed  to  his  wealth  evinced  no  desire  to  succeed  to  the  toils  by 
which  the  wealth  had  been  acquired.  Tims,  ha-ving-an  heiMbr  the 
one,  he  had  long  looked  about  for  an  heir  to  the  owieY  fcnd  now  re- 
solved on  finding  that  heir  in  me.  So  when  Ave  parted  Dr.  Faber 
made  me  promise  to  correspond  with  him  regularly,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  he  disclosed  by  letter  the  plans  he  had  formed  in  my 
favor.  He  said  that  he  was  growing  old  ;  his-prattice  was  beyond 
his  strength;  he  needed  a  partner;  he  was  not  disposed  to  put  up 
to  sale  the  health  of  patients  whom  he  bad  learned  to  regard  as  his 
children.  Money  was  no  object  to  him  ;  but  it  was  an  object  close 
at  his  heart  that  the  humanity  he  had  served,  and  the  reputation 
he  had  acquired  should  suffer  no  loss  in  his  choice,  of  a  successor. 

In  fine,  he  proposed  that  I  should  a  me  to  L as  his 

partner,  with  the  view  of  succeeding  to  bis  entire  practice  al 
end  of  two  years,  when  it  was  his  intention  to  retire. 

The  opening  into  fortune  thus  afforded  to  me  was  01  rely 

presents  itself  to  a  young  man  enterii  a  overcrowded 

fession.    And  to  an  aspirant  less  allured  by  the  desire  of  fortune 
than  the  hope  of  distinction,  the  fame  of  the  physician  who  I 
generously  offered  to  me  the  inestimable  benefits  of  his  long  experi- 
ence, and  his  cordial  introduction,  was  in  itself  an  assurance  tl 
metropolitan  practice  is  not  essential  to  a  national  renown. 

I  went,  then,  to  L ,  and  before  t;.  years  of  my  partner- 

ship had  expired,  my  success  justified  my  kind  friend's  selection, 
and  far  more  than  realized  my  own  expectations.     I  was  fortunate 
in  effecting  some  notable  cures  in  the  earliest  cases  submitted  to 
me,  and  it  is  every  thing  in  the  career  of  a  physician  when  . 
luck   wins  betimes  Air  I  confidence  which  patients  r; 

Qgthened  experience.     To  the  rapid  facility 
which  my  way  was  made,  some  circu 

sional  skill  probablj  ed  from  the  suspicion  of 

a  medical  adventurer  by  the  accid  birth  and  fortune. 

longed  to  an  ancient  family  (a  branch  of  the  once  powerful  border 
clan  of  the  Fenwicks),  that  had  for  many  generations  held  a  fair 
estate  in  the  neighborhood  of  Windermere.  As  an  only  son  1  had 
succeeded  to  that  estate  ou  attaining  my  majority,  and  had  sold  it 
to  pay  off  the  debts  which  had  been  made  by  my  father,  who  had 
the  costly  tastes  of  au  antiquarian  and  collector.  The  residue  on 
the  sale  insured  me  a  modest  independence  apart  from  the  profits 
of  a  profession',  and  as  I  had  not  been  legally  bound  to  defray  my 
father's  debts,  so  I  obtained  that  character  for  disinterestedness  and 
integrity  which  always  in  England  tends  to  propitiate  the  public  to 
the  successes  achieved  by  industry  or  talent.  Perhaps,  too,  any 
professional  ability  I  might  possess  was  the  more  readily  conceded, 
because  I  had  cultivated  with  assiduity  the  sciences  and  the  schol- 
arship which  are  collaterally  connected  witii  the  study  of  medicine. 
Thus,  in  a  word,  I  established  a  social  position  which  came  in  aid 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  5 

of  my  professional  repute,  and  silenced  much  of  that  envy  which 
usually  imbitters  and  sometimes  impedes  success. 

Dr.  Faber  retired  at  the  end  of  the  two  years  agreed  upon.     He 

went aferoad,  and  being,  though  advanced  in  years,  of  a  frame  still 

it,  and  habits  of  mind  still  inquiring  aud  eager,  he  i  ommenced 

a  lengthened  course  of  foreign  travel,  during  which  our  correspond- 

at  first  frequent,  gradually  languished,  and  finally  died  away. 

1  succeeded  at  once  to  the  larger  pari  of  the  practice  which  the 
labors  of  thirty  years  had  secured  to  my  predecessor.  My  chief 
rival  was  a  Dr.  Lloyd,  a  benevolent,  fervid  man.  not  without  genius 
—  if  genius  he  present  where  judgment  is  absent  ;  not  without 
science,  if  that  maybe  science  which  fails  in  precision.  One  of 
those  clever  desultory  men  who,  in  adopting  a  profession,  do  not 
give  up  to  it  the  whole  force  and  heat  of  their  minds.  Men  of  that 
kind  habitually  accept  a  mechanical  routine,  because  in  the  exercise 
eir  ostensible  calling  their  imaginative  faculties  are  drawn 
away  to  pursuits  more  alluring.  Therefore,  in  their  proper  voca- 
tion they  arc  seldom  bold  or  inventive — out  of  it  they  are  sometimes 
to  excess.     And  when  i  ke  up  a  novelty  in  theirown 

ision  they  cherish  it   with   an  obstinate  tenacity,  and  an  ex- 
travagant passion,  unknown  to  those  quiet  philosophers  who  take 
up  novelties  every  day,  examine  them  with  the  sobriety  of  prac 
eyes,  to  'ay  down  altogether,  modify  in   part,  or  accept  in  v, ;. 
rding  as  inductive  experiment  supports  or  destroys  conjecture. 

Dr.  Lloyd  had  been  esteemed  a  learned  naturalist  long  before  he 
was  admitted  to  be  a  tolerable  physician.  Amidst  the  privations 
of  his  youth  he  had  contrived  to  form,  and  with  each  succeeding 
year  he  had  perseveringly  increased,  a  zoological  collection  of 
ares,  nol  alive,  bur,  happily  for  the  beholder,. stuffed  or  em- 
balmed. From  what  I  have  said  it  will  be  truly  inferred  that  Dr. 
Lloyd's  earlier  career  as  a  physician  had  not  been  brilliant ;  but  of 
laic  years  he  had  gradually  rather  aged  than  worked  himself  into 
thai  professional  authority  and  station  which  time  confers  on  a 
thoroughly  respectable  man,  whom  no  one  is  disposed  to  envy  and 
all  are  disposed  to  like. 

>n'ow  in  L there  were  two  distinct  social  circles  :  that  of  the 

wealthy  merchants  and  traders,  and  that  of  a  few  privileged  fami- 
lies, inhabiting  a  part  of  the  town  aloof  from  the  marts  of  commerce, 
and  called  the  Abbey  Hill.  These  superb  Areopagites  exercised 
over  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  inferior  citizens  to  whom  all  of 

L ,  except  the  Abbey  Hill,  owed  its  prosperity,  the  same  kind 

of  mysterious  influence  which  the  fine  ladies  of  May  fair  and  Bel- 
gravia  ale  reported  to  hold  over  the  female  denizens  of  Bloomsbury 
and  Maryiebone. 

Abbey  Hill  was  not  opulent,  but  it  was  powerful  by  a  concen- 
tration of  its  resources  in  all  matters  of  patronage.  Abbey  Hill 
had  its  own  milliner,  and  its  own  draper,  its  own  confectioner, 
butcher,  baker,  and  tea-dealer,  and  the  patronage  of  Abbey  Hill 


6  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

was  like  the  patronage  of  royalty— less  lucrative  in  itself  than  as  a 
solemn  certificate  of  general  merit.  The  shops  on  which  Abbey 
Hill  conferred  its  custom  were  certainly  not  the  cheapest,  possibly 
not  the  best,  But  they  were  undeniably  the  most  imposing.  The 
proprietors  were  decorously  pompous— the  shopmen  superciliously 
polite.  They  could  not  be  more  so  if  they  had  belonged  to  the 
State,  and  been  paid  by  a  public  which  they  benefited  and  despised, 
The  ladies  of  Low  Town  (as  the  city  subjacent  to  the  Hill  had 
been  styled  from  a  date  remote  in  the  feudal  ages)  entered  those 
shops  with  a  certain  awe,  and  left  them  with  a  certain  pride.  There 
they  had  learned  what  the  Hill  approved.  There  they  had  bought 
what  the  Hill  had  purchased.  It  is  much  in  this  life  to  be  q 
sure  that  we  are  in  the  right,  whatever  that  conviction  may  cost  us. 
Abbey  Hill  had  been  in  the  habit  of  appointing,  among  other  objects 
of  patronage,  its  own  physician.  But  that  habit  had  fallen  into 
disuse  during  the  latter  years  of  my  predecessor's  practice.  His 
superiority  over  all  other  medical  men  in  the  town  bad  become  so 
incontestable  that,  though  he  was  emphatically  the  doctor  of  Low 
Town,  the  head  of  its  hospitals  and  infirmaries,  and  by  birth  re- 
lated to  its  principal  traders,  still  as  Abbey  Hill  was  occasionally 
subject  to  the  physical  infirmities  of  meaner  mortals,  so  on  those 
occasions  it  deemed  it  best  not  to  push  the  point  of  honor  to  the 
wanton  sacrifice  of  life.  Since  Low  Town  possessed  one  of  the. 
most  famous  physicians  in  England,  Abbey  Hill  magnanimously 
resolved  not  to  crush  him  by  a  rival.  Abbey  Hill  let  him  feel  its 
pulse. 

AVhen  my  predecessor  retired  I  had  presumptuously  expected 
that  the  Hill  would  have  continued  to  suspend  its  normal  right  to 
a  special  physician,  and  shown  to  me  the  same  generous  favor  it 
had  shown  to  him,  who  had  declared  me  worthy  to  succeed  to  his 
honors.  I  had  the  more  excuse  for  this  presumption  because  the 
Hill  had  already  allowed  me  to  visit  a  fair  proportion  of  its  invalids, 
had  said  some  very  gracious  things  to  me  about  the  great  respecta- 
bility of  the  Fenwick  family,  and  sent  me  some  invitations  to  dinner, 
and  a  great  many  invitations  to  tea. 

But  my  self-conceit  received  a  notable  check.  Abbey  Hill  de- 
clared that  the  time  had  come  to  reassert  its  dormant  privilege — it 
must  have  a  doctor  of  its  own  choosing — a  doctor  who  might,  in- 
deed, be  permitted  to  visit  Low  Town  from  motives  of  humanity  or 
gains  but  who  must  emphatically  assert  his  special  allegiance  to 
Abbey  Hill  by  fixing  his  home  on  that  venerable  promontory. 
Miss  Brabazon,  a  spinster  of  uncertain  age,  but  undoubted  pedi- 
gree, with  small  fortune;  but  high  nose,  which  she  would  pleasantly 
observe  was  a  proof  of  her  descent  from  Humphrey  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester (with  whom,  indeed,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  spite  of  chronology, 
that  she  very  often  dined.),  was  commissioned  to  inquire  of  me 
diplomatically,  and  without  committing  Abbey  Hill  too  much  by 
overture,  whether  I  would  take  a  large  and  anticpaated  mansion,  in 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  7 

which  abbots  were  said  to  have  lived  many  centuries  ago,  and 
which  was  still  popularly  styled  Abbots'  House,  situated  on  the 
verge  of  the  Hill,  as  in  thai  case  the  "  Hill"  would  think  of  me. 

"  It  is  a  large  house  for  a  single  man,  I  allow,"  said  Miss  Bra- 
bazon,  candidly;  and  then  added,  with  a  sidelong  glance  of  alarm- 
ing sweetness,  "but  when  Dr.  Fenwick  has  taken  his  true  position 
(so  old  a  family  !)  among  Us,  he  need  not  long  remain  single  unless 
he  prefer  it." 

I  replied,  with  more  asperity  than  the  occasion  called  for,  that  I 
had  no  thought  of  changing  my  residence  at  present.  And  if  the 
Hill  wauled  me,  the  Hill  must  send  for  me. 

Two  days  afterwards  Dr.  Lloyd  took  Abbots'  House,  and  in  less 
than  a  week  was  proclaimed  medical  adviser  to  the  Hill.  The 
election  had  been  decided  by  the  fiat  of  a  great  lady,  who  reigned 
supreme  on  the  sacred  eminence,  under  the  name  and  title  of  Mrs. 
Colonel  Poyntz. 

"  Dr.  Fenwick,"  said  this  lady,  "is  a  clever  young  man  and  a 
gentleman,  but  he  gives  himself  airs — the  Hill  does  not  allow  any 
airs  but  its  own.  Besides,  he  is  a  new-comer:  resistance  to  new- 
comers, and.  indeed,  to  all  things  new,  except  caps  and  novels,  is 
one  of  the  bonds  that  keep  old  established  societies  together.  Ac- 
cordingly, it  is  by  my  advice  that  Dr.  Lloyd  has  taken  Abbots' 
House:  the  rent  would  be  too  high  for  his  means  if  the  Hill  did 
not  feel  bound  in  honor  to  justify  the  trust  he  has  placed  in  its 
patronage.  I  told  him  that  all  my  friends,  when  they  had  any 
Hung  the  matter  with  them,  would  send  for  him;  those  who  are 
my  friends  will  do  so.  What  the  Hill  does,  plenty  of  common 
people  down  there  will  do  also — so  that  question  is  settled  !  "  And 
it  was  settled. 

Dr.  Lloyd,  thus  taken  by  the  band,  soon  extended  the  range  of 
his  visits  beyond  the  Hill,  which  was  not  precisely  a  mountain  of 
gold  to  doctors,  and  shared  with  myself,  though  in  a  comparatively 
small  degree,  the  much  more  lucrative  practice  of  Low  Town. 

I  had  no  cause  to  grudge  his  success,  nor  did  I.  But  to  my 
theories  of  medicine  his  diagnosis  was  shallow,  and  his  prescriptions 
obsolete.  When  we  were  summoned  to  a  joint  consultation,  our 
views  as  to  the  proper  course  of  treatment  seldom  agreed.  Doubt- 
less be  thought  I  ought  to  have  deferred  to  his  seniority  in  years, 
bin  1  held  the  doctrine  which  youth  deems  a  truth  and  age  a  para- 
dox, namely,  that  in  science  the  young  men  are  the  practical  elders, 
inasmuch  as  they  are  schooled  in  the  latest  experiences  science  has 
gathered  up,  while  their  seniors  are  cramped  by  the  dogmas  they 
schooled  to  believe  when  the  world  was  some  decades  the 
younger. 

Meanwhile  my  reputation  continued  rapidly  to  advance ;  it  be- 
came more  than  local;  my  advice  was  sought  even  by  patients 
from  the  metropolis.  That  ambition  which,  conceived  in  early 
youth,  had  decided  my  career  and  sweetened  all  its  labors — the 


8  A   STRANGE   STORY. 

ambition  to  take  a  rank  and  leave  a  name  as  one  of  the  great 
pathologists  to  whom  humanity  accords  a  grateful,  if  calm,  renown 
—saw  before  it  a  level  field  and  a  certain  goal. 

I  know  not  whether  a  success  far  beyond  that  usually  attained 
at  the  age  I  had  reached  served  to  increase,  but  it  seemed  to  my- 
self to  justify  the  main  characteristics  of  my  moral  organization — 
intellectual  pride. 

Though  mild  and  gentle  to  the  sufferers  under  my  care,  as  a 
necessary  element  of  professional  duty,  I  was  intolerant  of  contra- 
diction from  those  who  belonged  to  my  calling,  or  even  from  those 
who,  in  general  opinion,  opposed  my  favorite  theories. 

I  had  espoused  a  school  of  medical  philosophy  severely  rigid  in 
its  inductive  logic.  My  creed  was  that  of  stem  materialism.  I 
had  a  contempt  for  the  understanding  of  men  who  accepted  with 
credulity  what  they  could  not  explain  by  reason.  My  favorite 
phrase  was  "  common  sense."  At  the  same  time  I  had  no  preju- 
dice against  bold  discovery,  and  discovery  necessitates  conjecture  ; 
but  I  dismissed  as  idle  all  conjecture  that  could  not  be  brought  to  a 
practical  test. 

As  in  medicine  I  had  been  the  pupil  of  Broussais,  so  in  meta- 
physics I  was  the  disciple  of  Condillac.  1  believed  with  that 
philosopher  that  "all  our  knowledge  we  owe  to  Nature:  that  in 
the  beginning  we  can  only  instruct  ourselves  through  her  lessons, 
and  that  the  whole  art  of  reasoning  consists  in  continuing  as  she 
has  compelled  us  to  commence."  Keeping  natural  philosophy 
apart  from  the  doctrines  of  revelation,  1  never  assailed  the  last, 
but  I  contended  that  by  the  first  no  accurate  reasoner  could  arrive 
at  the  existence  of  the  soul  as  a  third  principle  of  being  equally 
distinct  from  mind  and  body.  That  by  a  miracle  man  might  live 
again,  was  a  question  of  faith  and  not  of  understanding.  I  left 
faith  to  religion,  and  banished  it  from  philosophy.  How  define 
with  a  precision  to  satisfy  the  logic  of  philosophy  what  was  to  live 
"again  ?  The  body  1  We  know  that  the  body  rests  in  its  grave  till 
by  the  process  of  decomposition  its  elemental  parts  enter  into  other 
forms  of  matter.  The  mind  ?  But  the  mind  was  as  clearly  the  re- 
sult of  the  bodily  organization  as  the  music  of  the  harpsichord  is 
the  result  of  the  instrumental  mechanism.  The  mind  shared  the 
decreptitude  of  the  body  in  extreme  old  age,  and  in  the  full  vigor 
of  youth  a  sudden  injury  to  the  brain  might  forever  destroy  the  in- 
tellect of  a  Plato  or  a  Shakspeare,  But  the  third  principle — the  soul 
— the  something  lodged  within  the  body,  which  yet  was  to  survive 
it?  Where  was  the  soul  hid  out  of  the  ken  of  the  anatomist  1 
When  philosophers  attempted  to  define  it,  were  they  not  compelled 
to  confound  its  nature  and  its  actions  with  those  of  the  mind  ? 
Could  they  reduce  it  to  the  mere  moral  sense,  varying  accordii 
education,  circumstances,  and  physical  constitution]  But  even  the 
moral  sense  in  the  most  virtuous  of  men  may  be  swept  away  by  a 
fever.     Such  at  the  time  I  now  speak  of  were  the  views  I  held. 


A    STRAXGE    STORY.  9 

Views  certainly  not   original  nor  pleasing  ;    but  I  cherished  them 
willi  as  fond  a  tenacity  as  if  they  had  been  consolatory  truths  <>f 
i  I  was  the  first  discoverer.     I  was  intolerant  to  those  who 
maintained  opposite  doctrines — despised  theim  as  irrational,  or  dis- 
liked them  as  insincere.    Certainly  if  I   had  fulfilled  the  ci 
which  my  ambition  predicted — become  the  founder  of  a  new  school 
in  pathology,  and  summed  up  my  theories  in  academical  lectures, 
i  should  have  added  another  authority,  however  feeble,  to  the  sects 
which  circumscribe  the  interests  of  man  to  the  life  which  has 
close  in  his  grave. 
Possibly  thai   which    I   have  called  my  intellectual  pride  was 
i  nourished  than  1  should  have  been  willing  to  grant  by  that 
self-reliance  which  an  unusual  degree  of  physical  power  is  apl   to 
bestow.     Nature  had  blest  me  with  the  thews  of  an  athlete.  Among 
the  hardy  youths  of  the  Northern  Athens  I  had  been  preemin 
distinguished  for  feats  of  activity  and  strength.     ^Iy  mental  labors 
and  the  anxiety  which   is  inseparable  from    the  conscientious  re- 
sponsibilities of  the  medical  profession,  kept  my  health  below 
par  of  keen  enjoyment,  but  had  in  no  way  diminished  my  rare  mus- 
cular force.     I  walked  through  the  crowd  with  the  firm  step  and 
lofty  crest  of  the  mailed  knight  of  old,  who  felt  himself,  in  biscase- 
menl  of  iron,  a  match  against  numbers.     Thus  the  sense  of  a  v. -bust 
individuality,  strong  alike  in  disciplined  reason  and  animal  vigor — 
habituated  to  aid  ol  ling  no  aid  for  itself — contribute! 

render  me  imperious  in  will  and  arrogant  in  opinion.     Nor  ' 
such  defects  injurious  to  me  in  my  profession ;    on  the  contrary, 
aided  as  they  were  by  a  calm  manner,  and  a  presence  not,  without 
that  kind  of  dignity  which  is  the  livery  of  self-esteem,  the 
to  impose  respect  and  inspire  trust. 


CR AFTER  II. 


I  had  been  about  six  years  at  L .  when  I  became  suddenly 

involved  in  a  controversy  with  Dr.  Lloyd.     Just  as  this  ill-fated 
man  appeared  at  the  culminating  point,  of  his  professional 
he  had  the  imprudence  to  proclaim  himself  not  only  an  enthusi 
advocate  of  mesmerism,  as  a  curative  process,  but  an  arden 

■  of  the  reality  of  somnambular  clairvoyance  as  an  invaluable 
of  certain  privileged  organizations.  To  these  doctrines  I  stern- 
ly opposed  myself — the  more  sternly,  perhaps.  on  these 
doctrines  Dr.  Lloyd  founded  an  argument  for  the  existence  of  soul, 
independent  of  mind,  as  cf  m  d  built  thereon  a  superstruc- 
ture of  physiological  phantasies,  which,  could  it  be  substantiated, 
would  replace  every  system  of  metaphysics  on  which  recognized 
philosophy  condescends  to  disp 


10  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

About  two  years  before  he  became  a  disciple  rather  of  Puysegjur 
than  Mesroer  (for  Mesnierhad  little  faith  in  that  gift  of  dairvox 
of  which  Puysegur  was,  I  believe,  the  first  audacious  assertory  Dr. 
Lloyd  had  been  afflicted  with  the  lnss  of  a  wife  many  years  younger 
than  himself,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  tenderly  attached.  And 
this  bereavement,  in  directing  the  hopes  that  consoled  him  to  a 
world  beyond  the  grave,  had  served  perhaps  to  render  him  more 
credulous  of  the  phenomena  in  which  lie  greeted  additional  proofs 
of  purely  spiritual  existence.  Certainly,  if,  in  controverting  the 
notions  of  another  physiologist,  I  had  restricted  myself  to  that  fair 
antagonism  which  belongs  to. scientific  disputants  anxious  only  for 
the  truth,  I  should  need  no  apology  for  sincere  conviction  and  hon- 
est argument;  but  when,  with  condescending  good-nature,  as  if  to 
a  man  much  younger  than  himself,  who  was  ignorant  of  the  pheno- 
mena which  he  nevertheless  denied,  Dr.  Lloyd  invited  me  to  attend 
his  seances  and  witness  his  cures,  my  amour  propre  became  roused 
and  nettled,  and  it  seemed  to  me  necessary  to  put-  down  what  I  as- 
serted to  be  too  gross  an  outrage  on  common  sense  to  justify  the 
ceremony  of  examination.  I  wrote,  therefore,  a  small  pamphlet  mi 
the  subject,  in  which  I  exhausted  all  the  weapons  that  irons 
lend  to  contempt.  Dr.  Lloyd  replied,  and  as  he  was  no  very  skill- 
ful arguer,  his  reply  injured  him  perhaps  more  than  my  assault. 
Meanwhile,  I  had  made  some  inquiries  as  to  the  moral  character  of 
his  favorite  clairvoyants.  i  imagined  that  I  had  learned  enough 
to  justify  me  in  treating  them  as  flagrant  cheats,  and  himself  as 
their  egregious  dupe. 

Low  Town  soon  ranged  itself,  with  very  few  exceptions,  on  my 
side.  The  Hill  at  first  seemed  disposed  to  rally  round  its  insulted 
ician,  and  to  make  the  dispute  a  party  question,  in  which  the 
Hill  would  have  been  signally  worsted,  when  suddenly  the  same 
lady  paramount,  who  had  secured  to  Dr.  Lloyd  the  smile  of  the 
Eminence,  spoke  forth  against  him,  and  the  Eminence  frowned. 

"  Dr.  Lloyd,"  said  the  Queen  of  the  Hill,  "  is  an  amiable  creature, 
but  on  this  subject  decidedly  cracked,  ('racked  poets  may  be  all 
the  better  for  being  cracked  ;    cracked  doctors  are  dangerous.     Be- 

5,  in  deserting  that   old-fashioned   routine,  his   adherenci 
which  made  his  claim  to  the  Hill's  approbation;   and  unsettling 
the  mind  of  the  Hill  with  wild  revolutionary  theories,  Dr.  LI 
has  betrayed  the  principles  on  which  the  Hill' itself  rests  its  s 
foundations.     Of  those  principles  Dr.  Fenwick  has  made  bin 
champion;    and  the  Hill  is  bound  to  support   him.     There,  the 
question  is  settled  !" 

And  it  was  settled.  % 

From  the  moment  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz  thus  issued  the  word  of 
command,  Dr.  Lloyd  was  demolished     His  pr; 
well  as  bis  repute.    Mortification  or  anger  brought  on  a  stroke  of 
paralysis,  which,  disabling  my  opponent,  put  an  end  to  our  con- 
troversy.    An  obscure  Dr.  Jones,  who  had  been  the  special  pupil 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  11 

and   protege"  of  Dr.  Lloyd,  offered  himself  as  a  candidate  for  the 
Mill's   tongues  and  pulses.     The  Hill  gave  him  little  encoui 

mini.  It  mi'-;'  more  tuspended  iis  electoral  privileges,  and,  with- 
out insisting  on  calling  me  up  to  ii,  ifa  quietly  called  roe  in  when- 
ever its  health  needed  other  advice  than  that  of  its  visiting  apothe- 
cary. Again  it  invited  me.  sometimes  to  dinner,  often  to  tea.  And 
again  ^Iiss  Brabazon  assured  me  by  a  sidelong? glance  that  ;, 
no  fault  of  hers  if  I  were  still  single. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  the  dispute  which  had  obtained  for  n 
conspicuous  a  triumph,  when  one  winter's  night  1  was  roused  from 
sleep  by  a,  summons  to  attend  Dr.  Lloyd,  who,  attacked  by  a  se 
stroke  a  few  hours  previously,  had,  on  recovering  sense,  expr< 
a  vehement  desire  to  consult  the  rival  by  whom  he  had  sutler, 
severely.     1  dressed  myself  in  haste  ami  hurried  to  hi 

A  February  night,  sharp  and  bitter.  An  iron-gray  frost  below 
— a  spectral  melancholy  moon- above.  I  had  to  ascend  the  Abbey 
Hill  by  a  steep,  blind  lane  between  high  walls.     1  passed  through 

v  gates,  which  stood  wide  open,  into  the  garden  ground 
surrounded  the  old  Abbots'  House     At  the  end  of  a  short 
drive  the  dark  and  gloomy  building  cleared  itself  from  le; 
skeleton  tire-,  the  moon  resting  keen  and  cold  on  its  .  ables 

and  lofty  chimney-stacks.     An  old  woman  servant  received 
the  door,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  led  roe  through  a  Ion--  low 
hall,  and  up  dreary  oak  stairs,  to  a  broad  landing,  at  which 
i  d  for  a  moment,  listening.     Round  and  about  hall,  stain 
and  landing,  were  ranged  the  dead  specimens  of  the  savage  world 
which  it  had  ben  the  pride  of  the  naturalist's. life  to  collect.     Close 
where   1   stood  yawned  the  open   jaws  of   the   fell   anaconda — its 
lower  coils  hid,  as  they  rested  on  the  floor  below,  by  the  winding  of 
the  massive  stairs.     Against  the  didl  wainscot   wails  were  pend 
cases  stored  with  grotesque  unfamiliar  mummies,  seen  imperfe 
by  the  moon  that   shot  through   the  window-panes,  and  the  candle 
in  the  old  woman's  hands.     And  as  now  she  turned  towards  me. 
nodding  her  signal  to  follow,  and  went  on  up  the  shadowy  pas 
rows  of  gigantic  birds — ibis  and  vulture,  and  huge  sea  glaucus— 
glared  at  me  in  the  false  life  of  their  angry  eyes. 

So  I  entered  the  sick-room,  and  the  first  glance  told  me  that  my 
art  was  powerless  there. 

The  children  of  the  stricken  widower  were  round  his 

bed,  the  eldest  apparently  aboul  fifteen,  the  ybungesl  four;  one  lu- 
ll— the  only  female  child — was  cli  i  her  father's  I 
her  face  pressed  to   his  bosom,  and  in  that  room  her  sobs  alone 
were  loud. 

As  I  passed  the  threshold  Dr.  Lloyd  lifted   his   face,  which  had 
been  bent  over  the  weeping  child,  and  gazed  on  me  with  an  as; 
of  strange  glee,   which   I  failed  to  interpret.    Then,  as  [  stoli 
ward  hi. u  softly  and  slowly,  he  pressed  his  lips  on  the  long 

that,  streamed  wild  over  his  breast,  motioned  to  a  nurse  who 


12  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

stood  beside  his  pillow  to  take  the  child  away,  and,  in  a  voice 
clearer  than  I  could  have  expected  in  one  on  whose  brow  lay  the 
unmistakable  hand  of  death,  he  bade  the  nurse  and  the  children 
quit  the  room.  All  went  sorrowfully,  but  silently,  save  the  little 
girl,  who,  borne  off  in  the  nurse's  arms,  continued  to  sob  as  if  her 
heart  were  breaking.  * 

I  was  not  prepared  for  a  scene  so  affecting ;  it  moved  me  to  the 
quick.  My  eyes  wistfully  followed  the  children,  so  soon  to  be 
orphans,  as  one  after  one  went  out  into  the  dark  chill  shadow,  and 
amidst  the  bloodless  forms  of  the  dumb  bride  nature,  ranged  in 
grisly  vista  beyond  the  death-room  of  man.  And  when  the  last  in- 
fant shape  had  vanished,  and  the  door  closed  with  a  jarring  click, 
my  sight  wandered  loiteringly  around  the  chamber  before  I  could 
bring  myself  to  fix  it  on  the  broken  form,  beside  which  I  now  stood 
in  all  that  glorious  vigor  of  frame  which  had  fostered  the  pride  of 
my  mind. 

In  the  moment  consumed  by  my  mournful  survey. the  whole. 
aspect  of  the  place  impressed  itself  ineffaceably  on  life-long  remem- 
brance. Through  the  high,  deep-sunken-casement,  acrossj  which 
the  thin,  faded  curtain  was  but  half-drawn,  the  moonlight  rushed, 
and  then  settled  on  the  floor  in  one  shroud  of  while  glimmer,  lost 
under  the  gloom  of  the  death-bed.  The  roof  was  low,  and  seemed 
lower  still  by  heavy  intersecting  beams,  which  1  might  have 
touched  with  my  lifted  hand.  And  the  , tall,  guttering  caudle  by 
the  bed-side,  and  the  flicker  from  the  fire  struggling  out  through 
the  fuel  but  newly  heaped  on  it,  threw  their  reflection  on  the  ceiling 
just  over  my  head  in  a  reek  of*  quivering  blackness,  like  an  angry 
cloud. 

Suddenly  1  felt  my  arm  grasped,  with  his  left  hand  (the  rigbl 
side  was  already  lifeless) ;  the  dying  man  drew  me  toward  him 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  his  lips  almosl  touched  my  car.  And,  in  a 
voice  now  firm,  now  splitting  into  gasp  and  hiss,  thus  he  said: 

"I  have  summoned  you  to  gaze  on  your  own  work!  You  have 
stricken  down  my  life  at  the  moment  when  it  was  most  needed  by  my 
children,  and  most  serviceable  to  mankind.  Had  I  lived  a  few 
years  longer,  my  children  would  have  entered  on  manhood,  safe 
from  the  temptations  of  want  and  undejectod  by  the  charity  of 
strangers.  Thanks  to  you,  they  will  be  penniless  orphans. 
Fellow-creatures  afflicted  by  maladies  your  pharmacopoeia  had 
failed  to  reach,  came  to  me  for  relief,  and  they  found  it.  '  The  ef- 
fect of  imagination,'  you  say.  What  matters,  if  I  directed  the 
imagination  to  cure?  Now  you  have  mocked  the  unhappy  ones 
out  of  their"  last  chance  of  life.  They  will  suffer  and  perish. 
Did  you  believe  me  in  error?  Still* you  knew  that  my  object 
was  research  into  truth.  You  employed  against  your  brother  in 
art  venomous  drugs  and  a  poisoned  probe.  Look  at  me !  Are 
you  satisfied  witb  your  work  ?  " 

I  sought  to  draw  back  and  pluck  my  arm  from  the  dying  man's 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  13 

grasp.     I  could  not  do  so  without  using  a  force  that  would  have 
inhuman.    His  lips  drew  nearer  stiil  to  my  ear. 

"  Vain  pretender,  do  not  boast  that  you  brought  a  genius  for 
eji-Tani  to  the  seryice  of  science.     Science  is  lenient  to  all  who 

riment    as    the  test  of  conjecture.    You  axe  of   th< 
which  inquisitors  are  made.     You  cry  that  truth  is  profane  when 
your  dogmas  arc  questioned.     In  your  shallow  presumption  you 
have  meted  the  dominions  of  nature,   and  where  your  eye  halts 
its  vision,  you  say,  'There,  nature  musl  in  the  bigotry 

which  adds  crime  to  presumption,  you  would  stone  the  discoverer 
who,  in  annexing  new  realms  to  her  chart,  unsettles  your  arbitrary 
landmarks.  Verily,  retribution  shall  await  you.  In  those  spaces 
which  your  sight  has  disdained  to  explore  you  shall  yourself  he  a 
lost,  ami  bewildered  straggler.  Hist !  I  see  "them  already  !  The 
gibbering  phantoms  are  gathering  round  you  !" 

The  man's  voice  stopped  abruptly  ;  his  eye  fixed  in  a  glazing 
stare;  his  hand  relaxed  its  hold;  he  fell  back  on  his  pillow.  1 
stole  from  the  room  ;  on  the  landing-place  J  met  the  nurse  and  the 
old  woman  servant.  Happily  the  children  were  not  there.  But  1 
heard  the  wail  of  the  female  child  from  some  room  not  far  distant. 

I   whispered  hurriedly  to   the   nurse,  "All   is  over!" — pa 
under  the  jaws  of  the  vast  anaconda — and  on  through  the  blind 
lane  between  the  dead  walls — mi  through  the  ghastly  streets,  under 
Jiastly  moon — went  back  to  my  solitary  home. 


CHAPTER  III. 


-It. was  some  time  before  I  could  shake  off  the  impression  made 
on  me  by  the  words  and  look  of  that  dying  man. 

not  that  my  conscience  upbraided  me.  What  had  I 
I  Denounced  that  which  I  held,  in  common  with  most  men 
of  sense  in  or  out  of  my  profession,  to  be  one  ot  those  illusions  by 
which  quackery  draws  profit  from  the  wonder  of  ignorance.  Was 
i  io  blame  if  1  had  refused  to  treat  with  the  grave  .respect  due  to 
rted  discovery  in  legitimate  science  pretensions  to  powers  akin 
to  the  fables  of  wizards]    was  1  to  descend  from  the  Acad<  i 

reus  science  to  examine  whether  a  slumbering  sibyl  could  read 

from  a  book  placed  at  her  back,  or  tell  me  at  L what  at  that 

moment  was  being  done  by  my  friend  at  the  Antipodes  '. 

And  whar  though   Dr.  Lloyd   himself  might  be  a  worthy  and 
si  man,  and  a  sincere  believer  in  the  extravagances  for  which 
he  demanded  an  equal  credulity  in  others,  do  not  honest  men  even- 
day  incur  the  penally  of  ridicule,  if,  from  a  defect  of  good  sense. 
make  themselves  ridiculous  .'     Could  1  bave  f<  that  a 

satire  so  justly  provoked  would  indict  so  deadly  a  wound  ?     Was  I 
inhumanly  barbarous  because  the  antagonist  destroyed  was  morbid- 


\ 

14  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

ly  sensitive  ?  My  conscience,  therefore,  made  me  no  reproach,  and 
the  public  was  as  little  severe  as  my  conscience.  The  public  had 
been  with  me  in  our  contest — the  public  knew  nothing  of  my  op- 
ponent's death-bed  accusations — the  public  knew  only  that  I  had 
attended  him  in  his  last  moments — it  admired  the  respect  to  his 
memory  which  I  evinced  in  the  simple  tomb  that  I  placed  over 
his  remains,  inscribed  with  an  epitaph  that  did  justice  to  his  in- 
contestible  benevolence  and  integrity  :— above  all,  it  saw  me 
walk  beside  the  bier  that  bore  him  to  his  grave — it  praised  the 
energy  with  which  I  set  on  foot  a  subscription  for  his  orphan  child- 
ren, and  the  generosity  with  which  I  headed  that  subscription  by 
a  sum  that  was  large  in  proportion  to  my  means. 

To  that  sum  I  did  not,  indeed,  limit  my  contribution.  The  sobs 
of  the  poor  female  child  rang  still  on  my  heart.  As  her  grief  had 
been  keener  than  that  of  her  brothers,  so  she  might  be  subjected 
to  sharper  trials  than  they,  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  tight  her 
own  way  through  the  world;  therefore  1  secured  to  her,  but  with 
such  precautions  that  l!  ;;  d  not  be  traced  to  my  hand,  a 

sum  to  accumulate  till  she  was  of  marriageable  age,  and  which 
then  might  suffice  for  a  small  wedding  portion  ;  or,  if  she  remain- 
ed single,  for  an  income  that  would  place  her  beyond  the  tempta- 
tion of  want,  or  the  bitterness  of  a  servile  dependence. 

That  Dr.  Lloyd  should  have  died  in  poverty  was  a  matter  of  sur- 
prise at  first,  for  his  profits  during  the  last  few  years  had  been  con- 
siderable, and  his  mode  of  life  far  from  extravagant.  Jiut  just 
before  the  date  of  our  controversy  he  had  been  induced  to  assist. 
the  brother  of  his  lost  wife,  who  was  a  junior  partner  in  a  London 
bank,  with  the  loan  of  his  accumulated  savings.  This  man  proved 
dishonest;  he  embezzled  that  and  oilier  sums  intrusted  to  him, 
and  tied  the  country.  The  same  sentiment  of  conjugal  affection 
which  had  cost  Dr.  Lloyd  his  fortune  kept  him  silent  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  loss.  It  was  reserved  for  his  executors  to  disc 
the  treachery  of  the  brother-in-law  whom  he,  poor  man,  would 
have  generously  screened  from  additional  disgrace. 

The  mayor  of  L .  a  wealthy  and  public-spirited    merchant, 

purchased  the  museum  which  Dr.  Lloyd's  passion  for  natural  his- 
tory had  induced  him  to  form  ;  and  the'sum  thus  obtained,  tog* 
with  that  raised  by  subscription,  sufficed,  not  only  to  discharge  all 
debts  due  by  the  deceased,  but  to  insure  to  the  orpans  the  benefits 
of  an  education  that  might  tit  at  least  the  boys  to  enter  fairly  arm- 
ed into  that  game,  more  of  skill  than  of  chance,  in  which  Fortune 
is  really  so  little  blinded  that  we  see,  in  each  turn  of  her  wheel, 
Wealth  and  its  honors  pass  away  from  the  lax  fingers  of  ignorance 
and  sloth  to  the  resolute  grasp  of  labor  and  knowledge. 

Meanwhile  a  relation  in  a  distant  country  undertook  the  ci  ■ 
of  the  orphans;  they  disappeared  from  the  scene,  and  the  tide 
life  in  a  commercial  community  soon  flowed  over  the  place  which  the 
dead  man  had  occupied  in  the  thoughts  of  his  bustling  town-folks. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  15 

One  person  at  L ,  and  only  one,  appeared  to  share  and  inherit 

the  rancor  with  which  the  poor  physician  bad  denounced  me  on  his 
death-bed.     It  was  a  gentleman  named  Vigors,  distantly  relat 
the  deceased,  and  who  had  been,  in  point  of  station,  the  must  emi- 
nent of  Dr.  Lloyd's  partisans  in  the  controversy  with  himself;  a 
man  of  no  great  scholastic  acquirements  ;  but  of  respectable  abili- 
ties,   lie  bad   that  kind  of  power  which  the  world  concedes. to 
respectable  abilities,  when  accompanied  with  a  temper  more,  than 
usually  stern,  and  a  moral  character  more  than   usually  austere. 
His  ruling  passion  was  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  others  ;    and.  b 
a  magistrate,  he  was  the  most  active  and  the  most  rigid  of  ail 
magistrates  L had  ever  known. 

Mr.  Vigors  at  first  spoke  of  me  with  great  bitterness,  as  ha 
ruined,  and  in  tact  killed,  his  friend  by  the  uncharitable  and  unfair 
acerbity  which  he  declared  I  had  brought  into  what  ought  to  h 
be  in  an  unprejudiced  examination  of  a  simple  matter  of  fact.  But 
finding  no  sympathy  in  these  charges,  he  bad  the  discretion  to 
cease  from  making  them,  contenting  himself  with  a  solemn  shall 
his  head  if  he  heard  my  name  mentioned  in  terms  of  praise,  and  an 
oracular  sentence  or  two,  such  as.  "Time  will  show  ;  "  "  All's  well 
that  ends  well,"  etc.  Mr.  Vigors,  however,  mixed  very  little  in 
mqre  convivial  intercourse  of  the  towns-people,  lie  called  himself 
domestic;  but,  in  truth,  he  was  ungenial.  A  still' man,  star 
with  self-esteem,  He  thought  that  his  dignity  of  station  was  not 
sufficiently  acknowledged  by  the  merchants  of  Low  Town,  and  his 
superiority  of  intellect  not  sufficiently  recognized  by  the  occlusives 
of  the  Hill.  His  visits  were,  therefore,  chiefly  confined  to  the 
houses  of  neighboring  squares,  to  whom  his  reputation  as  a,  magis- 
trate, conjoined  with  his  solemn  exterior,  made  him  one  of  these 
oracles  by  which  men  consent  to  be  awed  on  condition  that  the  awe 
is  not  often  inflicted.  And  though  he  opened  his  house  three  times 
a  week,  ii  was  only  to  a  select  few,  whom  be  first  fed  and  then 
biologized.  Electro-biology  was  very  naturally  the  special  enter- 
tainment of  a  man  whom  no  intercourse  ever  pleased  in  which  bis 
will  was  not  imposed  upon  others.  Therefore  h  ■  only  invited  to 
hie  persons  whom  he  could  stare  into  the  abnegation  of  their 
s,  willing  to  say  that  beef  was  lamb,  or  brandy  was  coffee,  ac- 
cording as  he  willed  them  to  say.  And,  no  doubt,  the  persons 
asked  would  have  said  any  thing  he  willed  so  long  as  they  had.  in 
substance  .as  well  as  in  idea,  the  beef  and  the  brandy,  the  lamb 
and  the  Odffee.  I  did  not,  then,  often  meet  Mr.  Vigors  at  die  b< 
in  which  I  occasionally  spent  my  evenings.  I  heard  of  his  enn  i  y 
as  a  man  safe  in  his  home  hears  the  sough  of  the,  wind  on  the  com- 
mon without.  If  now  and  then  we  chanced  to  pass  in  the  streets, 
he  looked  up  at  me  (he  was  a  small  man  walking  on  tip-toe)  with 
the  sullen  scowl  of  dislike.  And  from  tin-  heighj  of  my  stature  1 
dropped  upon  the  small  man  and  sullen  scowl  th  ■  affable  smile  of 
supreme  indifference. 


16  A   STRANGE   STORY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


I  had  now  arrived  at  that  age  when  an  ambitious  man,  satisfied 
with  his  progress  in  the  world  without,  begins  to  feel,  in  the  crav- 
ings of  unsatisfied  affection,  the  void  of  a  solitary  hearth.  I  re- 
solved to  marry,  and  looked  out  for  a  wife.  I  had  never  hitherto 
admitted  into  my  life  the  passion  of  love.  In  fact,  T  had  regarded 
thai  passion,  even  in  my  earlier  youth,  with  a  certain  superb  con- 
tempt— as  a  malady  engendered  by  an  effeminate  idleness,  and 
red  by  a  sickly  imagination. 

I  wished  to  find  in  a  wife  a  rational  companion  and  affectionate 
and  trust-worthy  friend.  No  views  of  matrimony  could  be  less 
antic,  more  soberly  sensible,  than  those  which  I  conceived. 
Nor  were  my  requirements  mercenary  or  presumptous.  I  oared 
not  for  fortune ;  I  asked  nothing  fr6m  connections.  My  ambition 
was  exclusively  professional ;  it  could  be  served  by  no  titled  kin- 
dred, accelerated  by  no  wealthy  dower.  I  was  no  slave  to  beauty. 
I  did  not  seek  in  a  wife  the  accomplishments  of  a  finishing  school- 
teacher. 

Having  decided  that  the  time  had  come  to  select  my  helpmate,  I 
fmagined  that  I  should  find  no  difficulty  in  a  choice  that  my  reason 
would  approve.  But  day  upon  day,  week  upon  week  passed  away, 
and  though  among  the  families  1  visited  there  were  many  young 
ladies  who  possessed  more  than  the  qualifications  with  which  1 
conceived  that  I  should  be  amply  contented,  and  by  whom  I  might 
flatter  myself  that  my  proposals  would  not  be  disdained,  1  saw  not 
one  to  whose  life-long  companionship  I  should  not  infinitely  have 
preferred  the  solitude  I  found  so  irksome. 

One  evening,  in  returning  home  from  visiting  a  poor  female 
patient  whom  I  attended  gratuitously,  and  whose  case  demanded 
more  thought  than  that  of  any  other  in  my  lists — for  though  it 
had  been  considered  hopeless  in  the  hospital,  and  she  had  come 
home  to  die,  I  felt  certain  that  I  could  save  her.  and  she  seemed 
ering  under  my  care — one  evening,  it  was  the  12th  of  May, 
I  found  myself  just  before  the  gates  of  the  house  that  had  been  in- 
habited by  Dr.  Lloyd.  Since  his  death  the  house  had  been  unoc- 
cupied; the  rent  asked  for  it  by  the  proprietor  was  considered 
high;  and  from  the  sacked  Hill  on  which  it  was  situated  shy ue.-s 
or  pride  banished  the  wealthier  traders.  The  garden  gates  stood 
wide  open,  as  they  had  stood  in  the  winter  night  on  which  I  had 
passed  through  them  to  the  chamber  of  death.  The  remembrance 
of  that  death-bed  came  vividly  before  me,  and  the  dying  man's 
fantastic  threat  rang  again  in  my  startled  ears.  An  irresistible  im- 
pulse, which  I  could  not  then  account  for,  and  which  I  cannot  ac 
count  for  now — act  impulse  the  reverse  of  that  which  usually  makes 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  17 

ns  turn  away  with  quickened  step  from  a  spot  that  recalls  associa- 
tions of  pain — urged  me  on  through  the  ojpen  gates,  up  the  neg- 
lected, grass-grown  road;  urged  me  to  look,  under  the  westering 

sun  of  the  joyous  spring,  at  that  house  which  I  had  never  seen  but 
in  the  gloom  of  a  winter  night,  under  the"  melancholy  moon.  As 
the  building  came  in  sight,  with  dark  red  bricks,  partially  over- 
grown with  ivy,  1  perceived  that  it  was  no  longer  unoccupied.     I 

saw  forms  passing  athwart  the  open  windows;  a  van  laden  with 
articles  of  furniture  stood  before  the  door;  a  servant  in  livery  was 
beside  it  giving  directions  to  the  men  who  were  unloading,  livi- 
dently  some  family  was  just  entering  into  possession.  I  felt  some- 
what ashamed  of  my  trespass  and  turned  round  quickly  to  retrace 
my  steps.  1  had  retreated  but  a  few  yards  when  I  saw  before  me, 
at  the  entrance  gates,  Mr.  Vigors,  walking  beside  a  lady  apparently 
of  middle  age;  while  just  at  baud  a  path  cut  through  the  shrubs 
gave  a  view  of  a  small  wicket-gate  at  the  end  of  the  grounds.  I 
felt  unwilling  not  only  to  meet  the  lady,  whom  1  guessed  to  be  the 
new  occupier,  and  to  whom  I  should  have  to  make  a  somewhat 
awkward  apology  for  intrusion,  bat  still  more  to  encounter  the 
scornful  look  of  Mr.  Vigors,  in  what  appeared  to  my  pride  a  false 
or  undignified  position.  Involuntarily,  therefore,  I  turned  down 
tii;  path  which  would  favor  my  escape  unobserved.  When  about 
half  way  between  the  house  and  the  wicket-gate  the  shrubs  that 
had  clothed  the  path  on  either  side  suddenly  opened  to  the 
bringing  into  view  a  circle  of  sward,  surrounded  by  irregular 
incuts  of  did  brick-work,  partially  covered  with  ferns,  creepers,  or 
rock-plants,  weeds,  or  wild-flowers,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  circle 
a  fountain,  or  rather  water-cistern,  over  which  was  built  a  Gothic 
monastic  domi  ,  lopy,  resting  on  small  Norman  columns,  tame- 

worn,  dilapidated.  A  large  willow  overhung  this  unmis  I  ikable  relic 
of  the  ancient  abbey.  There  was  an  air  of  antiquity!  romance, 
legend  about  this  spot,  so  abruptly  disclosed  amidst  the  delicate 
green  of  the  young  shrubberies.  But  it  was  not  the  ruined  wall 
nor  the  Gothic  well  that  chained  my  footstep  and  charmed  my 
eyes. 

It  was  a  solitary  human  form — seated  there  amidst  the  mournful 

ruins. 

The  form  was  so  slight,  the  face  so  young,  that  at  the  first  glance  I 
murmured  to  myself,  "What  a  lovely  chUd!  "  But  as  my  eye  lin- 
gered, it  recognized  in  the  upturned,  thoughtful  brow,  in  the  sweet, 
serious  aspect,  in  the  rounded  outlines  of  that  slender  shape,  the 
inexpressible  dignity  of  virgin  woman. 

A  book  was  on  her  lap,  at  her  feci  a  little  basket,  half  filled  with 
violets  and  blossoms  culled  from  the  rock  plants  that  nestled  ami  1st 
the  ruins.  Behind  her,  the  willow,  like  an  emerald  waterfall, 
showered  down  its  arching  abundant  green,  bough  after  bough,  from 
the  tree-top  to  the  sward,  descending  in  wavy  verdure,  bright  to- 


18  A    STRANGE    STOBY. 

ward  the  summit,  in  the  smile  of  the  setting  sun,  and  darkening 
into  shadow  as  it  neared  the  earth. 

She  did  not  notice,  she  did  not  se  es  were  fixed  upon 

the  horizon,  where  it  sloped  furtbe  ace,  above  the  tree-tops 

and  the  ruins — fixed  so  intently  that  mechanically  I  turned  my  own 
gaze  to  follow  the  flight  of  hers.  It  was  as  if  she  watched  for 
some  expected  familiar  sign  to  grow  out  from  the  depths  of  heaven; 
perhaps  to  greet,  before  other  eyes  beheld  it,  the  ray  of  the  earliest  star. 
The  birds  dropped  from  the  boughs  on  the  turf  around  her,  so 
fe^lessly  that  one  alighted  amidst  the  flowers  in  the  Hit!"  basket  • 
at  her  feet.  There  is  a  famous  German  poem,  which  1  had  read  in 
my  youth,  called  -'.The  Maiden  ft  d,"  Variously  supposed 

to' lie  an  allegory  of  Spring,  or  of  Poetry,  loice 

of  commentators:  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  poem  had  1  een  made 
I'm- her.     VerUy,  indeed,  in  her  poet  or  pain  en  an 

image  equally  true  to  either  of  those  adorners  of  the  earth;  both 
outwardly  a  delight  to  sense. ;,  el  both  wakeningup  thoughts  within 
us,  not  sad,  but  akin  to  sadness. 

I  heard  now  a  step  behind  me,  and  a  voice  which  J  r< 
to  be  thai  of  Mr.  Vigors.     1  broke  from  the  charm  by  which  1  had 
been  so  lingeringly  spell-bound,  hurried  on  con. 
wicket-ga1  descended  into 

common  thoroughfare.     And  tin  i  n  be- 

I  hi  the  opposite  side  hi  mrcb-spires  ;  a  few 

more,  and  the  bustling  streets !     How  immeasurabl; 
yet  how  familiarly  near  to  the  World  in  which 
beingis  thai  fairy  land  of  romance  wl 
earth  before  us,  when  Love  steals 

be  hard  earth  again  as  Love  smili  oil' 


And  before  that  evening  1  had  Vigi  rs  with  su- 

preme indifference — what  importance  he  now  assumed  in  I 

The  lady  with  whom  I  had  seen  him  was  doubtless  the  new  ti 
of  that  house  in  which  the  young  creature  by  whom  my  heart 
si;  strangely  moved  evidently  had  her  home.  Most  probabb 
relation  between  the  two  ladies  v.  i  of  mother  and 

Mr.  Vigors,  the  friend  of  one,  might  himself  he  related  to  both 
— might  prejudice  them  against  me — might — here,  starting  up,  I 
snapped  the  thread  of  conjecture,  for  right  before  my  eyes,  on  the 
table  beside  which  I  had  seated  myself  on  entering  tne  room,  lay 
a  card  of  invitation  : 

Mas.  Poyktz. 
At  Ji 
Wednesday,  May  15th. 
Early. 


A   STRANt.sE   STORY.  19 

Mrs.  Poyntz— Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz !  the  Queen  of  the  Hill. 
There  at  her  house,  I  could  not  fail  \o  learn  all  aboul  the  new- 
comers, who  could  never  without  her  sanction  have  settled  on  her 
domain. 

I  hastily  changed  my  dress,  and,  with  heating  heart,  wound  my 
way  up  the  venerable  eminence.  , 

I  did  not  pass  through  the  lane  which  led  direct  to  Abbots' 
/louse  (for  that  old  building  Btood  solitary  amidst  its  grounds,  a 
little  apart  from  the  spacious  platform  on  which  the  if  the 

Hill  was  concentered),  but  up  the  broad  causeway,  with  visteed gas- 
lamps  ;  the  gayer  shops  still  unclosed,  the  tide  of  busy  life  only 
slowly  ebbing  from  the  still  animated  street,  on  to  a  square,  in 
which  the  lour  main  thorough  fares  of  the  city  Converged,  and  which 
formed  the  boundary  of  Low  Town.  A  huge  dark  archway, 
popularly  called  Monk's  Gate,  al  the  angle  of  this  square,  made 
the  entrance  to  Abbey  Hill.  When  the  arch  was  passed,  one  fell 
at  once  that  one  was  in  the  town  of  a  former  day.  The  pavement 
was  narrow  and  rugged;  the  shops  small,  their  upper  stories  pro- 
jecting, with  here  and  there,  plastered  fronts, quaintly  arabesqued. 
An  ascent,  short,  hut  Steep  and  tortuous,  conducted  at  once  to  the 
old  Abbey  Church,  nobly  situated  in  a  vast  quadrangle,  round 
which  were  the  genteel  and  gloomy  dwellings  of  the  Areop 
of  the  Hill.  More  genteel  and  less  gloomy  than  the  res) — li- 
the windows  and  flowers  on  the  balcony — stood  forth,  flanked  by  a 
garden  wall  tit  either  side,  the  mansion  of  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz. 

As  I  entered  the  drawing-room  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  hostess ; 
it  was  a  voice  clear,  decided,  metalic,  hell-like,  uttering  these 
words:  "Taken  Abbots'  House  !     I  will  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Mrs.  Poyntz  was  seated  on  the  sofa;  at  her  right  sat,  fat 
Mrs.  Bruce,  who  was  a  Seoul)  lord's  grand-daughter^  at  her 
hi;  thin  Miss  Brabazon,  who  was  an  Irish  baronet's  niece. — 
Around  her — a  tew  seated,  many  standing — had  grouped  all  the 
guests,  save  two  old  gentlemen,  who  remained  aloof  with  Col. 
Poyntz,  near  the  whist-table,  waiting  for  the  fourth  old  gentle- 
man, who  was  to  make  up  the  rubber,  hut  who  was  at  that  mo- 
ment, spell-bound  in  the  magic  circle,  which  curiosity,  that  strong- 
s' social  demons,  had  attracted  round  the  hostess. 

"Taken  Abbots' House?  1  will  tell  you.  Ah,  Dr.  Penwick  ! 
charmed  to  see  you.  You  know  Abbots' House  is  let  at  last.' 
Well,  Miss  Brabazon,  dear,  you  ask  who  has  taken  it.  I  will  fell 
you — a  particular  friend  of  mine." 

"  Indeed  !  Dear  me  !  "  said  Miss  Brabazon,  looking  confused. 
"  I  hope  I  did  not  say  anything  to — " 


I 

20  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  Wound  ray  feelings.  Not  in  the  least.  Ton  said  your  un- 
cle. Sir  P helim,  had  a  coach-maker  named  Asbleigb,  thai  Ashleigh 
was  an  uncommon  name,  though  Ashley  was  a  common  one  ; 
you  intimated  an  appalling  suspicion  thai  the  Mrs.  Ashleigh  who 
had  come  to  the  Hill  was  the  coach-maker's  widow.  1  relieve 
vour  mind — she  is  not ;  she  is  the  widow  of  Gilbert  Ashleigh,  of 
Kirby  Hall." 

"  Gilbert  Ashleigh,"  said  one  of  t lie  guests,  a  bachelor,  whose 
parents  had  reared  him  for  the  church,  but  who,  like  poor  Gold- 
smith, did  not  think  himself  good  enough  for  it — a  mistake 
of  over-modesty,  For  he  matured  into  a  very  harmless  crea- 
ture. "Gilbert  Ashleigh.  I  wa8  at' Oxford  with  him — a  gen- 
tleman commoner  of  Christ  Church.  Good- looking  man — very  ; 
sapped — " 

"Sapped!  what's  that?  Oh.  studied.  That  he  did  all  his 
life  He  married  young — Anne  Cbaloner;  she  and  I  were  girls 
together;  married  the  same  year.  They  settled  at  Kirby  Hall — 
nice  place,  but  dull.  I'ovntz  and  I  spent  a  Christmas  there. 
Ashleigh,  when  he  tall  ed.  was  charming,  but  he  talked  very  lit  lie. 
Anne,  when  she  talked,  was  common-place,  and  she  talked  very 
much.  Naturally,  poor  thing,  she  was  so  happy,  i'oyntz  and  1 
did  not  spend  another  Christmas  there.  Friendship  is  long,  but 
life  is  short.  Gilbert  Ash  leigb's  life  was  short  indeed;  he  died 
in  the  fifth  year  of  his  marriage,  leaving  only  one  child,  a  girl. 
Since  then,  though  I  never  spent  another  Christmas  at  Kirby  Hall. 
]  have  frequently  spent  a  day  there,  doing  my  besl  t<>  cheer  up 
Anne.  She  was  no  longer  talkative,  poor  dear.  Wrapt  up  in  her 
child,  who  has  now  grown  into  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen — such 
eyes,  her  father's — the  real   dark   blue — r.  creature,  but 

delicate;    not,  1   h<  umptive,  but   delicate;    quiet — wants 

life.     My  .lane  adores  her.     Jane  has  life  enough  for  iv. 

"Is  Miss  Ashleigh  the  heiress  to  Kirby  Hall/'"  asked  Mrs. 
Bruce,  who  had  an  unmarried  son. 

"No.  Kirby  Hall  passed  to  Ashleigh  Sumner,  the  male  heir, 
a  cousin".  And  the  luckiest  of  cousins  !  Gilbert's  sister,  si 
woman  (indeed,  all  show),  had  contrived  to. marry  her  kinsman, 
Sir  Walter  Ashleigh  Haughton,  the  head  of  the  Asbleigb  family, — 
just  the  man  made  To  be  the  reflector  of  a  showy  woman  !  He 
died  years  ago.  leaving  an  only  son,  Sir  James,  who  was  killed 
last  winter  by  a  fall  from  his  horse.  And  here,  again,  Asbleigb 
Sumner  proved  to  be  the  male  heir  at  law.  During  the  mino 
of  this  fortunate  youth,  Mrs.  Ashleigh  had  rented  Kirby  Hall  of 
his  guardian.  He  is  now  just  coming-  of  age,  and  that  is  why  she 
leaves.  Lilian  Ashleigh  will  have,  however,  a  very  good  for- 
tune— is  what  we  genteel  paupers  call  an  heiress.  I>  there  any 
thing  more  you  want  to  know?" 

Said  thin   Miss  Brabazon,  who  took  advantage  of  her  thinness 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  21 

to  wedge  herself  into  every  one's  affairs.     "A  most  interesting 
account.     But  what  brings  Mrs.  Ashleigh  here 

Answered  Mrs-. Colonel  Poyntz,  with  the  military  frankness  by 
which  she  kept  her  company  in  goo3  limnor,  as  well  as  ;> 

"  Why  do  any  of  us  come  here  1     Can  any  one  tell  me 

There  was  a  blank  silence,  which  the  hostess  herself  was  the 
first  to  break. 

"  None  of  us  present  can  say  why  we  came  here.     I  can  tell 
you  why   Mrs.  Ashleigh  came.     Our  neighbor,  Mr.  Vigors,  is  a 
distant  connection  of  the  late  Gilbert  Ashleigh,  one  of  the  execu- 
tors of  his  will,  and  the  guardian   to   the  heir-at-law.     About 
days  ago  Mr.  Vigors  called  on  me.  for  the  first  tine  since  1  fi 
my  duty  to  express  my  opinion  about  the  strange  vagaries  of  our 
poor  dear  friend,  Dr.  Lloyd.     And  when  he  bad  taken  his  chair. 
just  where   you  now   sir.  Dr.  Fen  wick,  he   said,  in  a  sepulchral 
voice,  stretching  out  two  fingers,  so.  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  v 
do-y ou-call- 'ems  who  go  to  sleep  when  he  bids  them,  '  marm,  you 
know   Mrs.    Ashleigh  !     Von    correspond    with  her.'     '  Yes.  Mr. 
Vigors  ;  is  there  any  crime  in  that  I     You  look  as   if  there  v, 
'  No  crime,  marm,'  said  the  man,  quite  seriously.     '  Mrs.  Ashleigh 
is  a  lady  of  amiable  temper,  and  you  are  a  woman  of  masculine 
understanding.'  " 

Here  there  was  a  general  titter.  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz  hushed 
it  with  a  look  of  severe  surprise.  "What,  is  thereto  laugh  at  ? 
All  women  would  be  men  if  I  hey  could.  If  my  tinders 
masculine,  so  much  the  heller  for  me.  1  thanked  Mr.  Vigor 
his  very  handsome  compliment,  and  he  then  went  on  to  say,  'that 
though  Mrs.  Ashleigh  would  now  have  to  leave  Kirov  Hall  in  a 
very  few  weeks,  she  seemed  quite  unable  to  make  up  her  mind 
where  to  go:  that  ii  had  occurred  to  him  that,  as  Miss  Ashleigh 
was  now  of  an  age  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  she  ought  not  to 
remain  buried  in  the  country  ;  while,  being  of  quiet  mind,  she  re- 
coiled from  the  dissipation  of  London.     Between  the  seclusion  of 

the  one  and  the  turmoil  of  the  other,  the  society  of  L was  a 

happy  medium,  fie  should  he  glad  of  my  opinion.  He  had  put 
off  asking  for  it,  because  he  owned  his  belief  that  I  had  behaved 
unkindly  to  his  lamented  friend.  Dr.  Lloyd;  but  he  now  found 
himself  in  rather  an  awkward  position.  His  ward,  young  Ash- 
leigh Sumner,  had  prudently  resolved  on  fixing  his  country  resi- 
dence at  Kirby  Hall,  rather  than  at  Haughton  Park,  the  much 
larger  seat,  which  had  so  suddenly  passed  to  his  inheritance,  and 
which  he  could  not  occupy  without  a  vast  establishment,  that  to 
a  single  man,  so  young,  would  be  but  a  cumbersome  and  costly 
trouble.  Mr.  Vigors  was  pledged  to  his  ward  to  obtain  him  pos 
session  of  Kirby  Hall  the  precise  day  agreed  upon,  but  Mrs.  Ash- 
leigh did  not  seem  disposed  to  stir — could  not  decide  where 
to  go.  Mr.  Vigors  was  loth  to  press  hard  on  his  old  friend's  wi- 
dow and  child.     It  was  a  thousand  pities  Mrs.  Ashleigh  could  not. 


22  A   STRANGE   STORY. 

make  up  her  mind  ;  she  had  had  ample  time  for  preparation.  A 
word  from  me,  at  this  moment,  would  be  an  effective  kindness. 
Abbots' House  was  vacant,  with  a  garden  so  extensive  that  the 
ladies  would  not  miss  the  country.  Another  party  was  after  it. 
but — '  'Say  no  more,'  I  cried;  'no  party  hut  my  dear  old 
friend,  Anne  Ashleigh,  shall  have  Abbots'  House.  So  thai  ques- 
tion is  settled.'  I  dismissed  Mr.  Vigors,  sent  for  my  carriage — 
that  is,  for  Mr,  Barker's  yellow  fly  and  his  best  horses — and 
drove  that  very  day  to  Kirby  Ball,  which,  though  nol  in  this 
co  inty,  is  only  twenty-five  miles  distant.  I  slept  there  that  night. 
By  nine  o'clock  the  bext  morning  I  had  secured  Mrs.  Ashleteh's 
consent,  on  the  promise  to  save  her  a  !  trouble,  came  back,  sent 
for  the  landlord,  settled   the  rent,  lease.  en|  ;    engaged 

Forbes'  vans  to  remove  the  furniture  from  Kirby  Hall,  told 
Forbes  to  begin  with  the  beds.  Wljen  her  own  bed  came,  which 
was  last  night,  Anne  Ashleigh  came  tool  1  have  seen  her  this 
morning.     She  likes  the  place,  so  does  Li  ian.     I   asked  them  in 

you  all  here  to-night  ;     but    Mrs.  AshleigTl    was  tired, 
last  of  the  furniture  was  to  arrive  in-day  ;   and   thoi 
Ashleigh  is  an  undecided  character,  she  is  not  inactive.     But  i    is 
not  only  the  planning  where  t«>  put   tables  and  chairs  tl 
have  tired  her  to-day  :  she  lias  had  Mr.  Vigors  on  her  hand-  all 
the  afternoon,  and  he  has  been — here's  her  little  n  I  are 

the  words?  no  doubt,  '  mosl  :   oppressive' — no, 

'  most  kind  and  attentive' — different  won',  ied  t'»  -Mr- 

Vigors,  they  mean  the  same  thil 

"And   now  next    Monday — we  must    leave  them   in    peace  till 
then — you  will  all  call  on   the  Ashleif  e  Hill  knows  what 

is  due  to  itself;    it  cannot  delegate  to  Mr.  Vigors,  a  respectable 
man  indeed,  but  who  does  no;   belong  to  its  set,  its  own  pi 
course  of  action  toward-  those  who  would  shelter  themsel ves  on 
its  bosom.     The  Hill  cannot  he  kind  and  attentive,  overpowering 
or  oppressive,  by  proxy.     To  those  new  horn  into  its  circle 

it  cannot  he  an  indifferent  godmother;  it  has  toward  them  all  the 
feelings   of  a   mother,  or  of  a   Btep-1  <■  may  be. 

Where  it  says,  «  This  can  be  no  chi  d  of  mine,'  it  is  a  step-mother 
indeed  ;  but,  in  all  those  whom  1  have  presented  to  its  arms,  it 
has  hitherto.  I  am  proud  to  say.  recof  arable  acquai 

ces,  and  to  them  the  Hill  has  been  a  Mother.  And  now,  my  dear 
Mr.  Sloman,  go  to  your  rubber ;    Poyntz  is  impatie  h  he 

don't  show  it.     Miss  Brabazon,  love,  oblige  us  at  the  piai 
thing  gay,  but  not  very  noisy — Mr.  Leopold  Smytbe  will  turn  the 
leaves  for  you.     Mrs.  Bruce,  your  own  favoi  vingt-un, 

with  four  dew  recruits.     Dr.  Fenwick,  you  are  like  me.  don't 
cards,  and  don't  care  for  music;    sit  here,  and  talk  or  not 
you  please,  while  I  knit." 

The  other  guests  thus  disposed  of,  some  at  the  card-tables, 
round  the  piano,  1  placed  myself  at  Mrs.  Poyntz's  side,  on  u  seat 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  23 

niched  in  the  recess  of  a  window,  which  an  evening  unusually 
warm  for  the  month  of  May  permitted  to  be  left  open.     T 
next  to  one  who  had  known  Lilian  ads  a  child,  one  from  whom  T 
had  learned  by  whal   sweet  name  to  call  the  imago  which   my 
thoughts  had   already  shrined.     How  much  that   I   still  long* 

She  could  tell  me!     But  in  what  form  of  qui  Id  I 

lead  to  the  subject,  y el  no!  betray  my  absorbing  interest  in  it  ?  T 
ing  to  speak,  1  felt  as  if  stricken  dumb  ;  stealing  an  unquiet  gla 
toward   the  face  hesidc  me,  and  deeply  impressed  with  that  truth 
which  the  Hill  had  I  ntly  acknowledged,  that  Mr- 

Jonel  Poyntz  was  a  very  superior  woman — a  very  powerful  creature. 

And  there  she  sat  knitting — rapidly,  firmly :  a  woman  some- 
what on  the  other  side  of  forty,  complexion  a  bronzed  pah- 
hair  a  bronzed  hrown,  in  strong  ringlets,  cropped  short  behind — 
handsome  hair  for  a  man:  lips  that,  when  (dosed,  showed  inflex- 
ible decision,  when  speaking,  became  supple  and  flexile  with  an 
humor  and  a  vigilant  fi  es  of  a  red  hazel,  quick  hut 

steady  ;  observant,  piercing,  dauntless  eyes;  altogether  a  fine 
countenance — would  have  been  a  very  tine  countenance  in  a  man; 
profile  sharp,  straight,  clear-cut,  with  an  expression,  when  in  re- 
,  like  il'a!  of  a  sphinx  ;  a  frame  robust,  not  corpulent,  of  mid- 
dle height,  hut  with  an  .  e  thai  made  her  appear  tall  ; 
peculiarly  white  firm  hands,  indicative  of  vigorous  health,  not  a 
vein  visible  on  the  surf 

Then1  she  sat  knitting,  knitting,  and  1  by  her  side,  gazing  now 
on  herself,  now  on  her  work,  with  a  vague  idea  that  the  threads 
in  th(  '  my  own  web  of  love  or  of  life  were  passing  quick 

through   tbose   noiseless    fingers.      And.  indeed,  in  every  w< 
romance,  the  fondest,  one  of  the  Parcae  is  sure  to  be  some  matter- 
of-facl  she,  social  Destiny,  as  little  akin  to  romance  itself — as  was 
this  worldly  Queen  of  the  Hill. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


I  HAVE  given  a  sketch  of  the  outward  woman  of  Mrs.  Colonel 
inner  woman  was  a  recondite  mystery,  dee])  as 
that  of  the  sphinx,  whose  features  her  own  resembled.  But  be- 
tween the  outward  and  the  inward  woman  there  is  ever  a  third 
woman — the  conventional  woman — such  as  the  whole  human  being 
appears  to  the  world — always  mantled,  sometimes  masked. 

I  am  told  that  the  tine  people  of  London  do  not  recognize  the 
title  of  "Mrs.  Colonel."  If  that  be  true,  the  fine  people  of  Lon- 
don must  be  clearly  in  the  wrong,  for  no  people  in  the  universe 
could  be  finer  than  the  fine  people  of  Abbey  Hill ;  and  they  con- 
sidered their  sovereign  had  as  good  a  right  to  the  title  of  Mrs. 
Colonel  as  the  Queen  of  England  has  to  that  of  "our  Gracious 
Lady."  But  Mrs.  Poyntz  herself  never  assumed  the  title  of  Mrs. 
Colonel;  it  never  appeared  on  her  cards  any  more  than  the  title 


24  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

of  "  Gracious  Lady"  appears  on  the  cards  which  convey  the  invi- 
tation that  a  Lord  Steward  or  Lord  Chamberlain  is  commanded 
by  Her  Majesty  to  issue.  To  titles,  indeed,  Mrs.  Poyntz  evinced 
no  superstitious  reverence.  Two  peeresses  related  to  her,  not 
distantly,  were  in  the  habit  of  paying  her  a  yearly  visit,  which 
lasted  two  or  three  days.  The  Hill  considered  these  visits  an 
honor  to  its  eminence.  Mr.  Poyntz  never  seemed  to  esteem  them 
an  honor  to  herself;  never  boasted  of  them  ;  never  soughl  to 
show  off  her  grand  relations,  nor  put  herself  the  least  oul  of  the 
way  t<;  receive  them.  Her  mode  of  life  was  free  from  ostentation. 
Se  had  the  advantage  of  being  a  few  hundreds  a  year  richer 
than  anj  other  inhabitant  of  the  Hill:  but  she  did  nut  devote 
her  superior  resources  to  the  invidious  exhibition  of  superior 
splendor  Like  a  wise  sovereign,  the  revenues  of  her  exchequer 
were  to  the  benefit  of  her  subjeots,  and  not  to  the  vanity 

of  egotistical  parade.  As  no  one  else  on  the  Hill  kepi  a  carriage, 
site  declined  to  keep  one.  Her  entertainments  were  simple,  but 
numerous.  Twice  a  week  she  received  the  Hill,  and  wa>  genu- 
inely at  home  to  it.  She  contrived  to  make  her  parties  prover- 
bial!; ble.  The  refreshments  were  of  the  same  kind  as 
those  which  the  poorest  of  her  old  maids  of  honor  might  proffer; 
but  they  were  better  of  their  kind — the  besl  of  their  kind — 
besl  tea,  the  besl  lemonade,  the  best  cakes.  Her  rooms 
bad  an  air  of  comfort  which  was  peculiar  to  them.  They 
looked  like  rooms  accustomed  to  receive,  and  receive  in  a 
friendly  way;  well  warmed,  well  lighted,  card-tables  and  pi- 
ano in  the  place  that  made  cards  and  music  inviting.  On 
walls  a  few  old  family  portraits,  and  three  or  foci'  oilier  pie 
tupes  be  valuable,  and-  certainly  pleasing — two  Wat- 
teau's,  a  Canaletti,  a  Weenix — plenty  of  easy  chairs  and  settees 
covered  with  a  cheerful  chintz.  In  the  arrangement  of  the  fur- 
niture generally,  an  indescribable  careless  elegance.  She  herself 
was  studiously  plain  in  dress,  more  conspicuously  t'n-c  from  jew- 
elry and  trinkets  than  any  married  lady  on  the  Hill.  But  1  have 
beard  from  those  who  were  authorities  on  such  a  subject,  that  she 
was  never  seen  in  a  dress  of  the  last  year's  fashion.  She  adi 
the  mode  as  it  came  out,  just  enough  to  show  that  she  was  a 
it  was  out;  hut  with  a  sober  reserve,  as  much  as  to  say  -  1 
adopt  the  fashion  as  far  as  it  suits  myself;  I  do  not  permit  the 
fashion  to  adopt  me."  In  short,  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz  was  some- 
times rough,  sometimes  coarse,  always  masculine:  and  yet,  some- 
how or  other,  masculine  in  a  womanly  way  ;  but  she  was  never 
vulgar,  hecause  never  affected.  It  was  impossible  not  to  allow 
that  she  was  a  Ihorough  gentlewoman,  and  she  could  do  things 
thai  lower  other  gentlewomen  without  any  Iqss  of -dignity.  Thus 
she  was  an  admirable  mimic,  certainly  in  itself  the  least  lady-like 
condescension  of  humor.  But  when  she  mimicked,  it  was  with 
so  tranquil  a  gravity,  or  so  royal  a  good-humor,  that  one  could 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  25 

oiily  say,  "What  talents  for  society  dear  Mrs.  Colonel  has!" 
As  she  was  a  gentlewoman  emphatically,  so  the  other  colonel,  the 
he-colonel)  was  emphatically  a  gentleman  j  rather  shy,  but  not 
cold:  bating  trouble  of  every  kind,  pleased  to  seem  a  cipher  in 
his  own  house.  If  the  sole  study  of  Mrs.  Colonel  had  been  to 
make  her  husband  comfortable,  she  could  not  have  succeeded  bet- 
ter than  by  Bringing  friends  about  him.  ami  then  taking  them  off 
his  hands.  Colonel  Poyntz,  the  he-oolonel,  had  seen  in  his  youth 
actual  service;  hut  had  retired  from  his  profession  many  years 
ago,  shortly  after  his  marriage.  Be  was  a  younger  brother  of  one 
of  the  principal  squires  in  the  county;  inherited  the  hoe- 
lived  in,  with  some  other  valuable  property  in  and  about  L . 

from  an  uncle  ;  was  considered  a  good  landlord  ;  and  popular  in 
Low  Town,  though  he  never  interfered  in  its  affairs.  He  was 
punctiliously  neat  in  his  dress;  a,  thin,  youthful  figure,  crowned 
with  a  thick  youthful  wig.  He  never  seemed  to  read  anything 
hut  the  newspapers  and  the  Meteorological  Journal;  was  sup- 
posed to  he  the  most  weatherwise  man  in  all  L .  lie  had  an- 
other intellectual  predilection — whist.  But  in  that  he  had  less 
reputation  for  wisdom.  Perhaps  it  requires  a  rarer  combination 
of  mental  faculties  to  win  an  odd  trick  than  to  divine  a  fall  in  the 
glass.  I'm-  the  rest,  the  he-colonel,  many  years  older  than  his 
wife,  despite  the  thin  youthful  figure,  was  an  admirable  aid-de- 
camp to  the  genera]  in  command,  Mrs.  Colonel ;  and  she  could 
not  have  found  one  more  obedient,  more  devoted,  or  more  proud  of 
a  distinguished  chief. 

In  giving  to  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz  the  appellation  of  Queen  of 
the  Hill,  let  there  he  no  mistake.  She  was  not  a  constitutional 
sovereign  ;  her  monarchy  was  absolute.  All  her  proclamations 
had  the  force  of  laws. 

Such  ascendency  could  not  have  been  attained  without  consid- 
erable talents  for  acquiring  and  keeping  it.  Amidst  all  her  off- 
hand, brisk,  imperious  frankness,  she  had  the  ineffable  discrimin- 
ation of  tact.  Whether  civil  or  rude,  she  was  never  civil  or  rude 
but  what  she  carried  public  opinion  along  with  her.  Her  knowl- 
edge of  general  society  must  have  heen  limited,  as  must  he  that 
of  all  female  sovereigns.  But  she  seemed  gifted  with  an  intuitive 
knowledge  of  human  nature  which  she  applied  to  her  special  am- 
bition of  ruling  it.  I  have  not  a  doubt  that  if  she  had  been  sud- 
denly transferred,  a  perfect  9tranger,  to  the  world  of  London,  she 
would  have  soon  forced  her  way  to  its  selectest  circles,  and,  when 
once  there,  held  her  own  against  a  duchess. 

I  have  said  that  she  was  not  affected  ;  this  might  he  one  cause 
of  her  sway  over  a  set  in  which  nearly  every  other  female  was  try- 
ing rather  to  seem,  than  to  lie,  a  somebody. 

Put  if  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyntz  was  not  artificial,  she  was  artful,  or 
perhaps  1  might  more  justly  say — artistic.  In  all  she  said  and 
did  there  were  conduct,  system,  plan.    She  could  be  a  most  ser- 


26  A   STRANGE   STORY. 

vioeable  friend,  a  most  damaging' enemy  ;  yet  I  believe  she  seldom 
indulged  in  strong  likings  or  si  rung  hatreds.  All  was  policy — a 
policy  akin  to  that  of  a  grand  parly  chief,  determined  to  raise  up 
those  whom,  for  any  reason  of  state  it  was  prudent  to  favor,  and 
to  put  down  those  whom,  for  any  reason  of  state,-  it  was  expedient 
to  humble  or  to  crush. 

Ever  since  the  controversy  with  Dr.  Lloyd,  this  lady  had  hon- 
ored me  with  her  henignest  countenance.  And  nothing  could  he 
more  adroit  than  the  manner  in  which,  while  imposing  me  mi  others 
as  an  oracular  authority,  she  sought  to  subject  to  her  will  the  ora- 
cle itself. 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  addressing  me  in  a  sort  of  motherly 
way  as  if  she  had  the  deepest  interest  in  my  welfare,  happiness 
and  reputation.  Ami  thus,  in  every  compliment,  in  every  seeming 
mark  of  respect,  she  maintained  the  superior  dignity  of  one  who 
takes  from  responsible  station  the  duty  to  encourage  rising  merit; 
so  that,  somehow  or  other,  despite  all  that  pride  which  made  me 
believe  that  I  needed  no  helping  hand  to  advance  or  to  clear  my 
way  through  the  world,  I  could  nol  shake  oil'  from  my  mind  the 
impression  that-  I  was  faysteriously  patronized  by  Mrs.  Colonel 
Poyntz. 

We  might  have  sat  together  five  minutes,  side  by  side — in  si- 
lence as  complete  as  ifi  Trophorrius — when,  wit! 
looking  up  from  her  work,  Mrs.  Poyntz  said  abruptly, 

"I  am  thinking  about  you,  Dr.  .     And  you — are  think- 

ing about  some  other  woman.     Ungrateful  i 

"  Unjust-  accusation  !     My  v<  i  should  prove  how  in- 

tently my  thoughts  were  fixed  on  yon,  and  on  the  weird  web  which 
springs  under  your  hand  in  meshes  that  bewilder  the  gaze  and 
snare  the  attention. 

Mrs.  Poyntz   looked  i  p  at  me  for   a.  — one  rapid  gl. 

•  if  the  bright  red  hazel  eye — and  said, 

"Was  I  really  in  your  thoughts  I     Answer  truly." 

"  Truly,  I  answer,  you  were." 

"  That  is  strange  !     Who  cai 

"  AVho  can  it  be  !     What  do  you  mean  V 

"If  you  were  thinking  of  me,  it  was  in  connection  with  • 
other  person — some  other  person  of  my   own  sex.     It  is  certainly 
not  poor  dear  .Miss  Brabazon.     Wl 

Again  the  red  eye  shot  over  me,  and  I  fell  my  cheek  redden  be- 
neath it. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  lowering  her  voice  ;  "  you  are  in  love  !  " 

"  In  love  ! — 1 !     Permit  me  to  ask  you  why  you  think  so  %  " 

"  The  signs  are  unmistakable  ;  you  are  altered  in  your  man- 
ner, even  in  the  ex;  ression  of  your  face,  since  I  last  saw  you, 
your  manner  is  generally  quiet  and  observant,  it  .is  now  restless 
and  distracted  ;   your  expression   of  "ally  proud  and 

serene,  it  is  now  humbled  arid  troubled.     Yoa   have  something  on 


A    STRANGE    STdRY. 

your  mind  !  It  is  not  anxiety  for  your  reputation,  that,  is  estab- 
lished ;  nor  for  your  fortune,  that  is  made;  it  is  not  anxiety  for  a 
patient,  or  you  would  scarcely  be  here.  But  anxiety  it  is,  an  anx- 
iety that  is  remote  from  your  profession,  that  tone!  cart 
and  is  new  to  it!" 

I  was  startled,  almost  awed.  But  I  tried  to  cove-  my  confu- 
sion With  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Profound  observer !     Subtle  analyst!     Yon 
me  that  I  must   lie  in  love,    though  I  did    no1    suspi  fore. 

But  when  I   strive  to   conjecture   the  object,  I  am  as  much 
plefled  as  yourself;  and  with  you,  I  ask,  v,  '    be  V 

"  Whoever  il   he,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  who  had   pat 
spoke,  from  her  knitting,  and  now    resumed   ii   very    slowly 
very  carefully,  as  if  her  mind  an^J  her  knitting  worked  in  ui  . 
together.     "  Whoever  it  be,  love  in   you   would  be  serious  ;  and, 
with  or  without  love,  marriage   is  ■    thing   o  us  all,     It  is 

not  even  pretty  girl  thai  would  suit  Alh 

las!  is  there  any  pretty  girl  whom  Allefi  Pen  wick  would 
suit  ?" 

"Tut  !  Von.  should  be  above  the  fretful  vanity  that  lays  traps 
for  a  compliment.     Yes;  the  time  te  in  your  life  and 

career  when  you  would  do  well  to  marry.     : 
that,"  she  added,  With  a  smile  as  if  h  j  1  a  slight 

in  earuest.  The  knitting  here  went  on  more  decidedly,  more 
quickly. 

u  I  do  not  yet  see  the  person.  No!  'Tis  a  pity  Allen 
Fenwick,  (whenever  Mrs.  Poyntz  called  me  by  my  Christian 
name,  she  always  assumed  her  majestic  motherly  manner),  "  a  pity 
that,  with  your  birth,  energies,  perseverence,  talents,  and,  let  me 
add,  your  advantages  of  manner  and  person — a  pity  that  you  did 
not  choose  a  career  that  might  achieve  higher  fortunes  and  louder 
fame  than  the  most  brilliant  :an  give  to  a  provincial  physi- 

cian. But  in  that  very  choice  you  interest  me.  My  choice  has 
been  much  the  same.  A  small  circle,  but  the  first  in  it.  Yet.  had 
I  been  a  man,  or  had  my  dear  colonel  been  a  man  whom  it  was  in 
the  power  of  woman's  art  to  raise  one  step  higher  in  that  meta- 
phorical ladder  which  is  not  the  laddt  ngels,  why,  then — 
what  then  ?  No  matter  !  I  am  contented.  or  my  ambition 
to  .lane      Do  you  not  think  her  handsom 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  I,  carelessly  and  natu- 
rally. 

"  I  have  settled  Jane's  lot  in  my  own  mind,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Poyntz,  striking  firm  into  another  row  of  the  knitting.  She  will 
marry  a  country  gentleman  of  lai  He  will  go       o Par- 

liament. She  will  study  his  advancement,  as  I  study  Poyntz's 
comfort.  If  he  be  clerer,  she  will  help  to  make  him  a  minister ; 
if  he* be  not  clever,  his  wealth  will  make  her  a  personage,  and  lift 
him  into  a  personage's  husband.     And,  now  that  you   see  I  have 


28  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

no  matrimonial  designs  on  you,  Allen  Fen  wick,  think  if  it  be  worth 
while  to  confide  in  me.     Possibly  I  may  be  useful—" 

"  I  know  not  bow  to  thank  you.  But,  as  yet  I  have  nothing  to 
confide." 

While  thus  saying,  I  turned  my  eyes  toward  the  open  window, 
beside  which  I  sat.  It  was  a  beautiful,  soft  night.  The  May 
moon  in  all  her  splendor.  The  town  stretched,  far  ind  wide  be- 
low, with  all  its  numberless  lights  ;  below — but  somewhat  distant — 
an  intervening  space  was  covered,  here,  by  the  broad  quadrangle 
(in  the  midst  of  which  stood,  massive  and  lonely,  the  grand  old 
church  );  and,  there,  by  the  gardens  and  scattered  cottages  or  man- 
sions that  clothed  the  sides  of  the  hill. 

"  Is  not  that  house,"  I  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "  yonder,  with 
the  three  gables,  the  one  in  which — which  poor  Dr.  Lloyd  lived — 
Abbots'  House  ?" 

I  spoke  abruptly,  as  if  to  intimate  my  desire  to  change  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation. 

"  Yes.  But  what  a  lovely  night !  How  is  it  that  the  moon 
blends  into  harmony  things  of  which  the  sun  only  marks  the  con- 
trast? That  stately  old  church  tower,  gray  with  its  thousand 
years — those  vulgar  tile  roofs  and  chimney-pots,  raw  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  yesterday  ;  now,  under  the  moonlight,  all  melt  into  one 
indivisible  charm  !" 

As  my  hostess  thus  spoke  she  had  left  her  seat,  taking  her  work 
with  her,  and  passed  from  the  window  into  the  balcony.  It  was 
not  often  that  Mrs.  Poyntz  condescended  to  admit  what  is  called 
"sentiment"  into  the  range  of  her  sharp,  practical,  worldly  talk, 
but  she  did  so  at  times;  always  when  she  did,  giving  me  the 
notion  of  an  intellect  much  too  comprehensive  not  to  allow  that  sen- 
timent has  a  place  in  this  life,  but  keeping  it  in  its  proper  place  by 
that  mixture  of  affability  and  indifference  with  which  sonic  high- 
born beauty  allows  the  genius  but  checks  the  presumption  of  a 
charming  and  penniless  poet,  For  a  few  minutes  her  eyes  roved 
over  the  scene  in  evident  enjoymenl  ;  then,  as  they  slowly  settled 
upon  the  three  gables  of  Abbots'  House,  her  face  regained  that 
something  of  hardness  which  belonged  to  its  decided  character ; 
her  ringers  again  mechanically  resumed  their  knitting,  and  she 
said,  in  her  clear,  unsoftened,  metallic  chime  of  voice,  "  Can  you 
guess  why  I  took  so  much  trouble  to  oblige  Mr.  Vigors  and  locate 
Mrs.  Ashleigh  yonder  V 

"You  favored  us  with  a  full  explanation  of  your  reasons." 

"  Some  of  my  reasons  ;  not  the  main  one.  People,  who  under- 
take the  task  of  governing  others,  as  I  do,  be  their  rule  a  kingdom 
or  a  hamlet,  must  adopt  a  principle  of  government  and  adhere  to 
it.  The  principle  that  suits  best  with  the  Hill  is  respect  for  the 
Proprieties.  We  have  not  much  money  pmtre  rums,  we  have  no 
great   rank.     Our   policy  is,  then,  to  set  up  the  Proprieties  as  an 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  29 

influence  which  money  must  court  and  rank  is  afraid  of.  I  had 
learned  just  before  Mr  Vigors  called  on  me  thai  Lady  Sarah  Bel- 
lasis  entertained  the  idea  of  hiring  Abbots'  House.  London  lias 
set  its  face  against  her  ;  a  provincial  town  would  be  more  chari- 
table. An  earl's  daughter,  with  a  good  income  and  an  awfully  had 
name,  of  the  best  manners  and  of  the  worst  morals,  would  have 
made  sad  havoc  among  the  Proprieties.  How  many  of  our  prim- 
mest old  maids  would  have  deserted  Tea  and  Mrs.  Poyntz  for 
Champagne  and  her  ladyship  !  The  Hill  was  never  in  so  fmmi- 
nent  a  danger.  Rather  than  Lady  Sarah  Bellasis  should  have  had 
that  house,  1  would  have  taken  it  myself  and  stocked  it  with  owls." 

"  Mrs.  Ashleigh  turned  up  just  in  I  he  critical  moment.  Lady 
Sarah  was  foiled,)  he  Proprieties  safe, and  so  thai»question  is  set  tied." 

'•  And  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have  your  early  friend  so  near  you  " 

Mrs.  Poyntz  lifted  her  eves  full  upon  me. 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Ashleig 

'"Not the  least." 

"  She  has  many  virtues  and  few  ideas.  She  is  commonplace 
wealc,  as  I  am  commonplace  strong.  But  commonplace  weak  can 
be  very  lovable.  Her  husband,  a  man  of  genius  and  learning, 
gave  her  his  whole  heart — a  heart  worth  having;  but  he  was  not 
ambitious,  and  he  despised  the  world." 

"  I  think  you  said  your  daughter  was  very  much  attached  to 
Miss  Ashleigh.     Does  her  character  resemble  her  mother's  .'" 

I  was  afraid  while  I  spoke  that  I  should  again  meet  Mrs.Poyntz's 
searching  gaze,  but    she  did  not  this  time  look  up  from  her  work. 

"  No  ;  Lilian  is  anything  but  commonplace." 

"You  describe  her  as  having  delicate  health;  you  implied  a 
hppe  that  she  was  not  consumptive.  1  trust  there  is  no  serious 
reason  for  apprehending  a  constitutional  tendency  which  at  her 
age  would  require  the  most  careful  watching." 

"I  trust  not.  If  she  were  to  die —  Dr.  Fenwick,  what  is  the 
matter  I" 

So  terrible  had  been  the  picture  which  this  woman's  words  had 
brought  before  me,  thai  1  started  as  if  my  own  life  had  received 
a  shock. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  1  said,  faltering,  pressing  ray  hand  to  my 
heart  ;  "  a  sudden  spasm  here — it  is  over  now.  You  were  saying 
that— that— " 

"  I  was  about  to  say — "  and  here  Mrs.  poyntz  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  mine.  "  I  was  about-  to  say  that  if  Lilian  Ashleigh 
were  to  die,  I  should  mourn  for  her  less  than  I  might  for  one 
who  valued  the  things  of  the  earth  more.  But  I  believe  there 
is  no  cause  for  the  alarm  my  words  so  inconsiderately  excited  in 
you  Her  mother  is  watchful  and  devoted  ;  and  if  the  least  thing 
ailed  Lilian,  slip  would  call  in  medical  advice.  Mr. Vigors  would, 
I  know,  recommend  Dr.  Jones." 


30  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

Closing  our  conference  with  those  stinging  words,  Mrs.  P<jynt.z 
here  turned  back  into  the  drawing  ro 

I  remained  some  minutes  on  the  balcony,  disconcerted,  enraged. 
With  what  consummate  art  had  this  practised  diplomatist  wound 
herself  into  my  secret!     Th-  A  read  my  heart  better  than 

myself  was  evident  from  that  Parthian  shaft,  barbed"  with  Dr. 
Junes,  which  she  bad  shot  over  her  shoulder  in  retreat.  That, 
from  the  first  moment  in  which  she  had  decoyed  me  to  her  side, 
she  had  detected  "the  something"  on  my  mind,  was  perhaps  but 
of  female  penetration.  But  it  was  with 
dinary  craft  that  her  whole  conversation  afterward  had  been 
so  shaped  as  to  learn  the  something,  and  lead    me  to  reveal  the 

one  to  whom  the  something  was  linked.     For  what  purpo 
What  was.  it  to  her  1     What  motive  could  she   have   beyond  the 
mere  gratification  of  curiosity  I     Perhaps,  at  first,  she  thought  I 
had  been  c  ^liter's  showy  beauty,  and    hence  the 

friendly,  half  cynical  frankness  with  which  she  had  avpWed 
her  ambitious  projects  for  that  young  lady's  matrimonial  advance- 
ment. Satisfied  by  my  manner  thai  !  I  no  presumptu 
hopes  in  that  quarter,  her  scrutiny  was  doubtless  continued  from 
th  :  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  a  wily  Inte  lect  which  impels 
schemers  and  politicians  to  an  activity  for  which,  without  that 
pleasure  itself,  there  would  seem  no  ;  inducement  ;  and 
besides,  the  ruling  passion  of  this  petty  sovereign  was  power.  And 
if  knowledge  be  power,  there  is  no  better  instrument  of  power 
over  a  con  turn  tcious  subject  than  ild  on  his  heart  which 
is  gained  in  the  knowledge  o!  it! 

•  But,  "secret!"  Had  it  really  come  to  this?  Was  it  possible 
that  the  mere  sight  of  a  human  lace,  never  beheld  before,  could 
disturb  the  whole  tenor  of  my  life — a  stranger  of  whose  mind  and 
character  I  knew  nothing,  whose  very  voice  I  had  never  heard  1 
It  was  only  by  the  intolerabl  f  anguish  that  had  rent   my 

heart  in  the  words,  carelessly,  abrubtly  spoken,    "if  she  wer 
die,"  that  I  had  felt  how  the  world  would  be  changed  to  me,  if* 
indeed  that  face  were  seen  in  it  no  more  !     Ye  a  no 

longer  to  myself— I  loved  !  And  like  all  qn  whom  love  descends, 
sometimes  softly,  slowly,  with  the  gradual  wing  of  the  cushat 
settling  down  into  its  nest,  somelime.s  with  the  swoop  of  the  < 
on  his  unsuspecting  quarry,  I  believed  that  none  ever  before  loved 
as  I  loved  ;  that  such,  love  was  an  abnormal  wonder,  made  solely 
for  me  and  I  for  it,  Then  my  mil  d  insensibly  hushed  its  angrier 
and  more  turbulent  thoughts  as  my  gaze  rested  upon  the  roof-tops 
of  Lilian's  home,  and  the  shimmering  silver  of  the  moonlit  willow, 
under  which  I  had  seen  her  gazing  into  the  roseate  heavens. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  Si 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing  room,  the  party  was  evidently 
about  to  break  up.  Those  who  had  grouped  round  the  piano  were 
now  assembled  round  the  refreshment  table.  The  card-pteyers 
had  risen,  and  were  settling  or  discussing  gains  and  losses.  While 
I  was  searching  for  my  hat,  which  1  had  somewhere  mislaid,  a 
poor  old  gentleman,  tormented  by  tic-doloreux,  crept  timidly  up  to 
me — the  proudesl  and  the  poorest  of  all  the  hidalgoes  settled  on 
the  Hill.  He  could  not  afford  a  fee  for  a  physician's  advice,  but 
pain  had  humbled  his  pride,  and  1  saw  ai  a  glance  that  he  was 
considering  how  to  take  a  surreptitious  advantage  of  social  inter- 
course, and  obtain  the  advice  withoul  paying  the  I  i  old 
man  discovered  the  hal  before  1  did,. stooped,  look  it  up,  extended 
ii  to  me  with  the  profound  bow  of  the  old  school,  while  the  other 
I,  clenched  and  quivering,  was  pressed  into  the  hollow  of  his 
cheek,  and  his  eyes  met  mine  with  wistful,  mute  entreaty.  The 
instinct  of  "my  profession  seized  me  at  once.  I  could  never  behold 
suffering  without  forgetting  all  else  in  the  desire  to  re  ieve  it. 

"  You  are  in  pain,    said  I,  softly.     S.t  down  i  ribe  the 

symptoms,     llcw,  it  is  true,  1  am  n  i  professional  doctor,  bul  I  am 
a  friend  who  is  fond  of  doctoring,  and  knows  something  aboul  it." 

So  we  sat  down  a  little  apart  from  the  other  guests,  and.  afl 
few  questions    and  answers,  I  was  pleased  to  tind  that   bis  "tic" 
(Jid  not  belong  to  the  less  curable  kind  of  that  agonizing  neuralgia. 
I  was  especially  successful  in  my  treatment  of  similar  sufferi 
for  which  I  had  discovered  an  anodyne  that  was  almost  spec 
I  wrote  on  a  leaf  of  my  pockel  book   a  prescription  which   1   fell 
sure  would  be  efficacious,  and  as  L  tore  it  out  and  placed' it  in  his 
hand,  1  chanced  tQ  look  up,  and  saw  the  hazel  eyes   of   my  hostess 
fixed  upon  me  with  a  kinder  and  softer  expression  than   they   often 
condescended  to  admit  into  their  cold  and  penetrating  lustre.     At 
thai  moment,  however,  her  attention    was  drawn  from  me  to  a 
servant,  who  entered  with  a  note,  and  I  heard  him  say,  though  in 
an  undertone  "  From  Mrs.  Ashleigh." 

She  opened  the  note,  read  it  hastily,  ordered  the  servant  to  wait 
without  the  door,  retired  to  her  writing-table,  which  stood  near 
,  lace  at  which  I  still  lingered,  rested  her  face  on  her  hand, 
and  seemed  musing.  Her  meditation  was  very  soon  over.  She 
turned  her  head,  and,  to  my  surprise,  beckoned  to  me.  I  ap- 
proached. 

"  Sit   here,"  she  whispered  ;    "  turn  your  back   toward  those 
people,  who  are  no  doubt  watching  us.      Read  this." 

She  placed  in  my  hand  the  note  she  had  just  received.     It  con- 
tained hut.  a  few  words  to  this  em 

"Di;\i;    Margaret—]  am  so  distressed.    Since   I  wrote  to  you,  a  few 
ago,  Lilian  is  taken  Buddenly  ill,  and  I  fear  seriously.    What  medical 
man  should  I  send  for  ?     Let  my  servant  have  Lis  name  and  address.. 

A.  A." 


32  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

I  sprang  from  my  seat. 

"  Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Poynfcz.  "  Would  you  much  care  if  I  sent 
the  servant  to  Dr.  Jouhs?" 

"  All,  Madam,  you  are  cruel !  What  have  I  done  that  you 
should  become  my  enemy  ?" 

"  Enemy  !  No.  You  have  just  befriended  one  of  my  friends. 
In  this  world  of  fools,  intellect  should  ally  itself  with  intellect. 
No  ;  I  am  not  your  enemy  !  But  you  have  not  yet  asked  me  to 
be  your  friend." 

Here  she  put  into  my  hands  a  note  she  had  written  while  thus 
speaking.  "  Receive  your  credentials.  If  there  be  any  cause  for 
alarm,  or  if  I  can,  be- of  use,  send  forme."  Resuming  the  work 
she  had  suspended,  but  with  lingering,  uncertain  fingers,  she  added, 
"  So  far,  then,  this  is  settled.  Nay,  no  thanks  ;  it  is  but  little  that 
is  settled  as  yet." 


.  TER  IX. 


In  a  very  few  minutes  1  was  once  more  in  the  grounds  of  that 
old  gable  house.  The  servant,  who  went  before  me.  entered  them 
by  the  stairs  and  the  wicket  gate  of  the  private  entrance;  that 
way  was  the  shortest.  So  again  I  passed  by  the  circling  gladf 
and  the  monastic  well — sward,  trees  and  ruins,  all  suffused  in  the 
limpid  moonlight, 

And  now  I  was  in  the  house  ;  the  servant  took  up  stairs  the  note 
with  which  !  was  charged,  and  a  minute  or  two  afterward  returned 
and  conducted  me  to  the  corridor  above,  in  which  Mrs.  Ash  eigh 
received  me.  I  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Your  daughter — is — is 
— not  seriously  ill,  I  hope.     What  is  it  ?" 

"Hush!"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "Will  you  step  this 
way  for  a  moment?"  She  passed  through  a  doorway  to  the 
right,  I  followed  her,  and  as  she  placed  on  the  table  the  ligh 
had  been  holding,  I  looked  round  with  a  chill  at  the  heart — it  was 
the  room  in  which  Dr.  Lloyd  had  died.  Impossible  to  mistake. 
The  furniture,  indeed,  was  changed — there  was  no  bed  in  the 
chamber;  but  the  shape  of  the  room,  the  position  of  the  high 
casement,  which  was  now  wide  open,  and  through  which  the  moon- 
light streamed  more  softly  than  on  that  drear  winter  night,  the  great 
square  beams  intersecting  the  low  ceiling — all  were  impressed 
vividly  on  my  memory.  The  chair  to  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh  beck- 
oned me  was  placed  just  on  the  spot  where  I  had  stood  by  the  bed- 
head of  the  dying  man. 

I  shrank  back — I  could  not  have  seated  myseli  there.  So  I  re- 
mained leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  while  Mrs.  Ashleigh  ;old 
her  story. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  33 

She  said  that  on  their  arrival  the  day  before,  Lilian  had  been 
in  mure  than  usually  good  health  and  spirits,  delighted  with  the 
old  house,  the  grounds,  and  especially  the  nook  by  the  Monk's 
Well,  at  which  .Mrs.  Ashleigh  had  left  her  that  evening  in  order 
to  make  some  purchases  in  the  town,  in  company  with  Mr.  Yi 
When  Mrs.  Ashleigh  returned,  she  and  Mr.  Vigors  had  s< 
Lilian  in  that  nook,  and  Mrs.  Ashleigh  then  detected,  with  a 
mother's  eye.  some  change  in  Lilian,  which  alarmed  her.  she 
seemed  lis!  less  and  dejected,  and  was  very  pale  ;  hut  she  denied 
that  she  felt  unwell.  On  regaining  the  house  she  had  sat  down  in 
the  room  in  which  we  then  were — "  which,"  said  Mrs.  Ashleigh, 
"as  ir  is  not  required  tor  a  sleeping-room,  my  daughter,  who  is 
fond  of  reading,  wished  to  tit  upas  her  morning-room,  or  study. 
I  left  her  here  and  went  into  the  drawing-room  below  with  Mr. 
Vigors.  When  he  quitted  me,  which  he  did  very  soon,  I  remained 
for  nearly  an  hour  giving  directions  about  the  placing  of  furniture, 
which  had  just  arrived  from  our  late  residence.  1  then  went  up 
si  airs  to  join  my  daughter,  and  to  my  terror  found  her  apparently 
lifeless  in  her  chair.     She  had  fainted  away." 

I    interrupted  Mrs.  Ashleigh  here.     "  Has  Miss  Ashleigh  been 
si  to  fainting  fits  '.  " 

"  No,  never.     When  she  recovered  she  seemed  bewildered — dis- 
inclined  to  speak.     J  got    her  to  bed,  and  as  she  then  fell  quietly 
ep,  m)-  mind  was  relieved.     1  thought  it  only  a  passing  effect 
of  excitement,  in  a  change  of  abode  ;    or  caused  by  something 
malaria  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  part  of  the  grounds  in  which  I 
found  her  sealed." 

'•  Very  likely.     The  hour  of  sunset  at  this  time  of  year  is  trying 
to  delicate  constitutions.      Go  on." 

"  About  three-quarters  of  an  hour  ago  she  woke  with  a  loud 
cry,  and  has  been  ever  since  in  a  state  of  great  agitation,  weeping 
I  tly,  and  answering  none  of  my  questions.     Yet  she  does  not 
seem  light-headed,  but  rather  what  we  call  hysterical." 

"  You  will  permit  me  now  to  see  her.     Take  comfort — in  all  you 
tell  me  T  s<.c  nothing  to  warrant  serious  alarm." 


CHAPTER  X. 


To  the  true  physician  there  is  an  inexpressible  sanctity  in  the 
sick-chamber!  At  its  threshold  the  more  human  passions  quit  their 
hold  on  his  heart.  Love  there  would  he  profanation.  Even  the 
grief  permitted  to  others  he  must  put  aside.  He  must  enter  that 
room  a  Calm    Intel/  lie  is  disabled  for  his  mission   if  he 

r  aught  to  obscure  ihe  keen  quiet  glance  of  his  science.     Age 
or  youth,  beauty  or  deformity,  innocence  or  guilt,  merge  their  dis- 
3 


34  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

tinctions  iu  one  common  attribute — human  suffering  appealing  to 
human  skill. 

Woe  to  the  households  in  which  the  trusted  Healer  feels  not  on 
his  conscience  the  solemn  obligations  of  his  glorious  art.  Rever- 
ently, as  in  a  temple,  I  stood  in  the  virgin's  chamber.  AY  hen  her 
mother  placed  her  hand  in  mine,  and  I  felt  the  throb  of  its  pulse, 
I  was  aware  of  no  quicker  heat  of  my  own  heart.  I  looked  with 
a  steacly  eye  on  the  face,  more  beautiful  from  the  flush  that  deep- 
ened the  delicate  hues  of  the  young  cheek,  and  the  lustre  that 
brightened  the  dark  blue  of  the  wandering  ey*s.  She  did  not  at 
first  heed  me  ;  did  not  seem  aware  of  my  presence  ;  but  kept  mur- 
muring to  herself  words  which  1  could  not  distinguish. 

At  length,  when  I  spoke  to  her,  in  that  low,  soothing  tone 
which  we  learn  at  the  sick-bed,  the  expression  of  her  face  altered 
suddenly;  she  passed  the  hand  1  did  not  hold  over  her  forehead, 
turned  round,  looked  at  me  full  and  long,  with  unmistakable  sur- 
prise, yet  not  as  if  the  surprise  displeased  her  ;  less  the  surprise 
which  recoils  from  the  sight  of  a  stranger  than  thai  which  seems 
doubtfully  to  recognize  an  unexpected  friend!  Vet  on  the  Sur- 
prise there  seemed  to  creep  something  of  apprehension — of  fear; 
her  hand  trembled,  her  voice  quivered,  as  she  said, 

"  Can  it  be,  can  it  be  I     Am  I  awake  ?     .Mother,  who  is  this  ?  " 

"Only  a  kind  visitor,  Dr.  Fenwick,  sent  by  Mrs.  Poyntz,  for  I 
was  uneasy  about  you  darling.     How  are  you  now  1  " 

"Keiter.     Strangely  better." 

She  removed  her  hand  gently  from  mine,  and  with  an  involun- 
tary  modest  shrinking,   turned    towards  Mrs.   Asbleigh,  dra 
her  mother  towards  herself,  so  that  she  became  at  once  hi 
from  me. 

Satisfied  that  there  was  here  no  delirium,  nor  even  more  than 
the  slight  and  temporary  li'xvr  which  often  accompanies  a  sudden 
nervous    attack    in    constitutions    peculiar.  live,    I    retired 

noiselessly  from  the  room,  and  went  not  into  that  which  had  been 
occupied  by  the  deceased  inmate,  but  down  stairs  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  write  my  prescription.  I  had  already  sent  the  ser- 
vant off  with  it  to  the  chemist's  before  Mrs  Asbleigh  joined  me. 

"  She  seems  recovering  surprisingly  ;  her  forehead  is  cooler  ; 
she  is  perfectly  self-possessed,  only  she  cannot  accdUnt  for  her 
own  seizure,  cannot  account  either  for  the  fainting  or  the  agitation 
with  which  she  awoke  from  sleep." 

"I  think  1  can  account  for  both.  The  first  room  in  which  she 
entered — that  in  which  she  fainted — had  its  window  open;  the 
sides  of  the  window  are  overgrown  with  rank,  creeping  plants  in 
full  blossom.  Miss  Asbleigh  had  already  predisposed  herself  to 
injurious  effects  from  the  effluvia,  by  fatigue,  excitement,  impru- 
dence in  sitting  out  at  the  fall  of  a  heavy  due.  The  sleep 
the  fainting  fit  was  the  more  disturbed,  because  nature,  always 
alert  and  active  in  subjects  so  young,  was  making  its  own  effort  to 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  36 

right  itself  from  an  injury.  Nature  has  nearly  succeeded.  What 
I  have  prescribed  will  a  little  aid  and  accelerate  thai  which  nature 
has  yel  to  do,  and  in  a  day  our  two  I  do  not  doubt  that  your  daugh- 
ter will  be  perfectly  restored.  Only  let  ma  recommend  care  to 
avoid  exposure  to  the  open  air  during  the  close  of  the  day.  Let 
her  avoid  also  the  room  in  which  she  was  first  seized,  for  it  is  a 
strang«  phenomenon  iu  nervous  temperaments  that  a  nervous 
attack  may,  without  visible  cause,  be  repeated  in  the  same  place 
where  it  was  first  experienced.  You  had  better  shut,  up  the  cham- 
ber lor  at  least  some  week's,  burn  tires  in  it,  repaint  and  paper  it, 
sprinkle  chloroform.  You  are  not,  perhaps,  aware  that.  Dr.  Lloyd 
died  iu  that  room  after  a  prolonged  illness.  {Suffer  me  to  wait  till 
your  servant  returns  with  the  medicine,  and  let  me  employ  the 
interval  in  asking  a  few  questions.  Miss  Ashleigh,  you  say,  never 
had  a  fainting  fit  before.  1  should  presume  that  she  is  nol  what 
we  call  strong.  Bui  has  she  ever  had  anv  illness  that  alarmed 
you  ? " 
"  Never." 

"  No  great  liability  to  cold  and  cough,  to  attacks  of  the  chest  or 
lungs  (" 

"( 'erta'mly  not.  Sti'll  I  have  feared  that  she  may  have  a  ten- 
dency to  consumption.  Do  you  think  so?  Y'our  questions  alarm 
me!*" 

"  I  do  not  think  so?  but  before  1  pronounce  a  positive  opinion, 
one  question  more.  You  say  you  feared  a  tendency  to  consump- 
tion. Is  that  disease  iu  her  family  .'  She  certainly  did  not  inherit 
it  from  you.     But  on  her  father's  side  .'" 

'•  lier  father,"  said  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  with  tears  in  her  voice,  "died 
young,  but  of  brain  fever,  which  the  medical  men  said  was  brought 
on  by  over-study." 

"  Enough,  my  dear  Madam.  What  you  say  confirms  my  belief 
that  your  daughter's  constitution  is  the  very  opposite  to  that  in 
which  the  seeds  of  consumption  lurk.  It  is  rather  that,  far  nobler 
constitution  which  the  keenness  of  the  nervous  susceptibility  ren- 
ders delicate  but  elastic — as  quick  to  recover  as  it  is  to  sutler." 

"Thank  yoifiHhank  you,  Dr.  Fenwiek,  for  what  you  say.  Y"ou 
take  a  load  from  my  heart.  For  Mr.  Vigors,  I  know,  thinks  Lilian 
consumptive,  and  Mrs.  l'oyntz  has  rather  frightened  me  at  times 
by  hints  to  the  same  effect.  But  when  you  speak  of  nervous  sus- 
ceptibility, I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  My  daughter  is  not 
what  is  commonly  called  nervous.  Her  temper  is  singularly  even." 
"  But  if  not  excitable,  should  you  also  say  that  she  is  not  im- 
pressionable? The  things  which  do  no!  disturb  her  temper  may, 
perhaps,  deject  her  spirits.     Do  I  make  myself  understood  .'" 

"Yes,  1  think  1  understand  your  distinction.  But  I  am  not 
quite  sure  if  it  applies.  To  most  things  that  affect  the  spirits  she 
is  not  more  sensitive  than  other  girls,  perhaps  less  so.  But  she  is 
certainly  very  impressionable  in  some  things." 


36  A    STRANGE    8TQR.Y. 

"  In  what  1 " 

"  She  is  more  moved  than  any  one  T  ever  knew  by  objects  in 
external  nature,  rural  scenery,  rural  sounds,  by  music,  by  the  books 
that  she  reads — even  books  that  are  not  works  of  imagination. 
Perhaps  in  all  this  she  takes  after  her  poor  father,  but  in  a  more 
marked  degree — at  least,  I  observe  it  more  in  her.  For  he  was 
peculiarly  silent  and  reserved.  And  perhaps  also  her  peculiarities 
have  been  fostered  by  the  seclusion  in  which  she  has  been  brought 
up.  It  was  with  a  view  to  make  her  a  little  more  like  girls  of  her 
own  age  that  our  friend,  Mrs.  Poyntz,  induced  me  to  come  here. 
Lilian  was  reconciled  to  this  Change;  but  she  shrank  from  the 
thoughts  of  London  which  I  should  have  preferred.  Her  poor  fa- 
ther could  not  endure  London." 

"  Miss  Ashleigh  is  fond  of  readin 

"Yes,  she  is  fond  of  reading,  but  more  fond  of  music.  She  will 
sit  by  herself  for  hours  v  ok  or  work,  and  seem  as  abstract- 

ed as   if  in  a  dream.     She  was  so  even  in  her  earliest  childhood. 
Then  she  would  tell  me  what  she  Lad  been  conjuring  up  to  herself. 
She  would  say  that  she  had  Seen— positively  seen — beautiful  lands 
far  away  from  earth  ;  flowers  and  trees  not  like  ours.     As 
older  this  visionary  talk  displeased  me,  and  i  scolded  her,  and  said 
that  if  others  heard  her  they  would  think  thai  she  was  not   i 
silly,  but  very  untruthful.     So  of  late  years  she  never  v< 
tell  me  what,  in  such  dreamy  moments,  she  suffers  herself  to  ima- 
'  ;  but  the  habit  of  musing  continues  still      Do  you  nol  i 
Mrs.  Poyntz,  that  the  host  cure  would  be  a  little  cheerfu 
ciety  among  other  young  | 

Dertamly,"   said  I,   honestly,  though    with    a  jealous   pi 
here  eo]  take  it  up  to  her 

then  sit  wi.h  her  half  an  hour  or  so?     By  that  time  I  expect  she 
will  be  asleep.     I  will  wail  here  till  you  return.     Oh,  I  can  an 
myself  with  the  newspapers  and  books  on  your  table.     Stay! 
ton  ;  be  sure  there  are  no  flowers  in  Miss  Ashleigh 's  sleeping- 
I  think  I  saw  a  treacherous  rose-tree  in  a  stand  by  the 
dow.     If, so,  banish  it,"  * 

Left  alone,  I  examined  the  room  in  which,  0  thought  of  joy  !  I 
had  surely  now  won  the  claim  to  become  a  privili  t.     1 

touched  the  books  Lilian  must  have  touched;  in  the  articles  of 
furniture,  as  yet  so  hastily  disposed  that  the  settled  look  of  home 
was  not  about  them,  I  still  knew  that  I  was  gazing  on  things  which 
her  mind  must  associate  with  the  history  of  her  young  life.  Tnat 
harp  must  be  surely  hers,  and  the  scarf,  with  a  girl's  favorite 
colors-— pure  white  and  pale  blue — and  the  bird-cage,  and  the  child- 
ish ivory  work-case,  with  implements  too  pretty  for  use,  all  i 
of  her. 

It  was  a  blissful,  intoxicating  reverie,  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh 's  en- 
trance disturbed. 


A    .VI  RANGE    STORY.  37 

Lilian  was  sleeping  calmly.  1  had  no  pretence  to  linger  there 
any  longer. 

"1    leave  you.     I  trust,  with  your  mind  quite  at  id  1. 

"  Vim  will  allow  in.-  tn  call  to-morrow,  in  the.  afternoon  '." 

"  <  )h  yes,  gratefully;" 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  held  out  her  hand  as  I  made  toward  the  door. 

Is  there  a  physician  who  has  not  felt  at  times  how  emo- 

nious  fee  throws  him  hack  from  the  garden  land  of  humanity  into 
the  market-place  of  money — seems  to  put.  him  out  of  the  paji 
equal  friendship,  and  say,  "  True,  you  have  given  health  and  life. 
'Adieu!  there,  you  are  'paid  for  it."  Willi  a  poor  person  there 
would  have  been  no  dilemma,  hut  Mrs.  Ashleigh  was  Affluent ;  to 
depart  from  custom  here  was  almost  impertinence.  Bat  had  the 
penally  of  my   refusal   been    tl  l   ol    never  again   beholding 

Lilian,  I  could  not  have  taken  her  mother's  gold.  >s"  !  did  \\<<\ 
pear  to  notice  the  hand  held  cut  to  me,  and  passed  by  with  aqu 
ened  step. 

"  But,  Dr.  Fenwick,  stop!" 

"  No,  ma'am,  no!  Miss  Ashleigh  would  have  recovered  as  soon 
Without  me.  Whenever  my  aid  is  really  wanted,  then — hut  Heaven 
grant  that  time  may  never  come!  We  will  talk  aboul  her  to- 
morrow." 

I  was  gi  .  irden  ground,  odorous  with  blossoms ; 

now  in  the  lane,  inclosed  by  the  narrow  walls;  now  in  the  des 
streets,  over  which  the  moon  shone  full  as  in  that  winter  night  when 
1  hurried  from  the  chamber  of  death.  Hut  the  streets  were  not 
ghastly  now,  and  the  moon  was  no  longer  Hecate,  that  dreary 
less  of  awe  and  spectres,  hut  the  sweet,  simple  Lady  of  the 
Stars,  on  whose  gentle  face  lovers  have  gazed  ever  since  (if  that 
uoraers  be  true)  she  was  parted  from  earth* to  rule 
the  tides  ofits  deeps  from  afar,  even  as  lore  from  love  divided  rules 
the  heart  that  yearns  toward  it  with  mysterious  law! 


CHAPTER  XI. 


With  what  increased  benignity  I  listened  to  the  patients  who 
visited  me  the  next  morning !  The  whole  human  race  seemed  to 
me  worthier  of  love,  and  1  longed  to  diffuse  among  all  some  rays 
of  the  glorious  hope  thai  had  dawned  upon  my  heart.  My  first 
call,  when  I  went  forlh.  was  on  the  poor  young  woman  from  whom 
I  had  been  returning  the  day  before,  when  an  impulse,  which 
seemed  like  a  fate,  had  lured  me  into  the  grounds  where  I  had  first 
seen'  Lilian.  I  fell  grateful  to  this  poor  patient;  without  her, 
Lilian  herself  might  yet  be  unknown  to  me. 

The  girl's  brother,  a  young  man  employed  in  the  police,  and 


38  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

whose  pay  supported  a  widowed  mother  and  the  suffering  sister. 
received  me  at  the  threshold  of  the  cottage. 

"  Oh,  Sir  !  she  is  so  much  better  to-day  ;  almost  free  from  pain. 
Will  she  live  now  1  can  she  live  ? " 

"  If  my  treatment  has  really  done  the  good  you  say  ;  if  she  be 
really  better  under  it,  I  think  her  recovery  may  be  pronounced. 
But  I  must  first  see  her." 

The  girl  was  indeed  wonderfully  better.  I  felt  that  my  skill  was 
achieving  a  signal  triumph,  but  that  day  even  my  intellectual  pride 
was  forgotten  in  the  luxurious  unfolding  of  that  sense  of  heart 
which  bad  so  newly  waked  into  blossom. 

As  I  recrossed  the  threshold  I  smiled  on  the  brother  who  was 
still  lingering  there. 

"Your  sister  is  saved,  Waby.  She  needs  now  chiefly  wine  and 
good  though  light  nourishment ;  these  you  will  find  at  my  bouse  ; 
call  there  for  them  every  day." 

"  (iod  bless  you.  Sir!  If  ever  I  can  serve  you — '*  His  tongue 
faltered — he  could  say  no  more. 

Serve  me — Allen  Fenwick — that  poor  policeman  !  Me,  whom  a 
king  could  not  serve  !  What  did  1  ask  from  earth  but  fame  aird 
Lilian's  heart.'  Thrones  and  bread  man  win  from  the  aid  of 
others.  lame-  and  woman's  heart  lie  can  only  gain  through 
himself. 

So  I  strode  gaily  up  the  hill,  through  the  iron  gates  into  the 
fairy  ground,  and  stood  before  Lilian's  home. 

The  man-servant,  on  opening  the  door,  seemed  somewhat   con- 
fused, and  said,  hastily,  before  I  spoke, 
"  Not  at  home,  Sir  ;  a  note  for  you." 

I  turned  the  note  mechanically  in  my  hand  ;  I  felt  stunned. 
"  Not?  at  home  !  Miss  Ashleigh  cannot  he  out.  How  is  sh< 
"  Better,  Sir,  thank  you." 

I  still  could  not  open  the  note  ;  my  eyes  turned  wistfully  to- 
wards the  windows  of  the  house,  and  there — at  the  drawing-room 
window — I  encountered  the  scowl  of  Air.  Vigors.  I  colored  with 
resentment,  divined  that  I  was  dismissed,  and  walked  away  with  a 
proud  crest  and  a  firm  stem 

When  1  was  out  of  the  gates,  in  the  blind  lane,  I  opened  the 
note.  It  began  formally,  "  Mrs.  Ashleigh  presents  her  compli- 
ments,'' and  went  on  to  thank  me,  civil  v  enough,  for  my  attendance 
the  night  before,  would  not  give  me  the  trouble  to  repeat  my  visit, 
and  inclosed  a  fee  double  the  amount  of  the  fee  prescribed  by 
custom.  I  flung  the  money,  as  an  asp  that  had  stung  me,  over  the 
high  wall,  and  tore  the  note  into  shreds.  Having  thus  idly  vented 
my  rage,  a  dull  gnawing  sorrow  came  heavily  down  upon  all  other 
enntions,  stifling  and  replacing  them.  At  the  mouth  of  the  lane 
I  halted.  I  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the  crowded  streets  be- 
yond. I  shrank  yet  more  from  the  routine  of  duties  which 
stretche  d  before  me  in  the  desert  into  which  daily  life  was  so  sud- 


A    STRANUE    STORY.  39 

denly  smitten.  T  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  shading  ray  dejected 
face  with  a  nerveless  hand.  I  looked  up  fee  the  sound  of  steps 
reached  my  ear,  and  saw  Dr.  Jones  coming  briskly  along  the  lane, 

evidently  from  Abbots' House.  He  must  have  been  there  at  the 
very  time  I  had  called.  1  was  not  only  dismissed  but  supplanted. 
I  ruse  before  he  reached  the  spot  on  which  1  had  seated  myself,  and 
went  my  way  into  the  town,  went  through  my  allotted  round  of 
professional  visits,  hut  my  attentions  were  nol  SO  tenderly  devoted, 
my  skill  so  genially  quickened  by  the  glow  of  benevolence,  as  my 
poorer  patients  had  found  them  in  the  morning. 

I  have  jaid  how  a  physician  should   enter   the   sick  room.     "  A 
Calm  Intelligence  !"     But  if  you  strike  a  blow  on  "t,  the 

intellect  suffers.  Little  worth,  I  suspect,  was  my  "calm  intelli- 
gence" that  day.  Biohat,  in  his  famous  book  upon  Life  and 
Death,  divides  life  into  two  classes — animal  and  organic.  Man's 
intellect,  with  the  brain  for  its  centre,. belongs  to  life  animal ;  his 
passions  to  life  organic,  centered  in  the  heart,  in  the  viscera.  Alas! 
if  the  noblest  passions,  through  which  alone  we  lift  ourselves  into 
the  moral  realm  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful,  really  have  their 
centre  in  the  life  which  the  very  vegetable,  lhat  lives  organically. 
shares  with  us  !  And.  alas  !  if  it  be  that  life  which  we  share  with 
the  vegetable,  that  can  cloud,  obstruct,  suspend,  annul  that  life 
centered  in  the  brain,  which  we  share  with  every  being  howsoever 
angelic,  in  every  star  howsoever  remote,  on  whom  the  Creator  be- 
stows the  faculty  of  thought  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 


But  suddenly  I  remembered  Mrs.  Poyntz.  I  ought  to  call  on 
her.  So  1  closed  my  round  of  visits  at  her  door.  But  the  day 
was  then  far  advanced,  and  the  servant  politely  informed  me  that 
Mrs.  Poyntz  was  at- dinner.  I  could  only  leave  my  card,  with  a 
message  that  1  would  pay  my  respects  to  her  the  next  day.  That 
evening  1  received  from  her  this  note  : 

"  DEAR  Dr.  FENWick — I  regret  much  that  I  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of 
Be  sing  y  hi  bo-rnorrow.  Poyntz  and  I  arc  going  to  visit  his  brother,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  county,  and  \vc  start  early.  W  e  shall  be  away  BOine  days. 
Sorry  t<>  hear  from  Mrs.  Ashloigb  that  she  has  been  persuaded  by  Mr.  Vigors 
to  consult  JDr.  Jones  about  Lilian.  Vigors  and  Jones  both  frighten  the  poojj 
mother,  arid  insist  upon  consumptive  tendencies.  Unluckily,  you  seem  to 
have  said  there  was  little  the  matter.  Some  (lot-tors  gain  their  practice,  as 
gome  preachers  fill  their  churches,  by  adroit  use  of  the  appeals  to  terror.  You 
do  not  want  patients;  Dr.  Jones  does.     And,  alter  all,   better  perhaps  as  it  is 

v.uns, etc.  M.  Poyntz." 

To  my  more  selfish  grief  aaxiety  for  Lilian  was  uow  added.  I 
had  seen  many  more  patients  die  from  being  mistreated  for  con- 


40  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

sumption  than  from  consumption  itself.  And  Dr.  Jones  was  a 
mercenary,  cunning,  needy  man,  with  much  crafty  knowledge  of 
human  foibles,  but  very  little  skill  in  the  treatment  of  human 
maladies.  My  fears  were  soon  confirmed.  A  few  days  after  I 
heard  from  Miss  Brabazon  that  Miss  Ashleigh  was  seriously  ill — 
kept  her  room.  Mrs.  Ashleigh  made  this  excuse  for  not-  immedi- 
ately returning  the  visits  which  the  Hill  had  showered  upon  her. 
Miss  Brabazon  had  seen  Dr.  Jones,  who  had  shaken  his  head  ;  said 
it  was  a  serious  case,  but  that  time  and  care  (his  time  and  his  care!) 
might  effect  wonders. 

How  stealthily  at  the  dead  of  the  night  I  would  climb  the  Hill, 
and  look  toward  the  windows  of  the  old  sombre  house — one  win- 
dow, in  which  a  light  burned  dim  and  mournful,  the  light  of  a  sick- 
room— of  hers? 

At  length  Mrs  Poyntz  came  back,  and  I  entered  her  house, 
having- fully  resolved  beforehand  on  the  line  of  policy  to  he  adopted 
toward  the'  potentate  whom  1  hoped  to  secure  as  an  ally.  It  was 
clear  that  neither  disguise  nor  half-confidence  would  baffle  the  pen- 
etration of  so  keen  an  intellect,  nor  propitiate  the  good  will  of  so 
imperious  and  resolute  a  temper.  Perfect  frankness  here  was  the 
wisest  prudence  ;  and,  after  all,  it  was  most  agreeable  to  my  own 
nature,  and  most  worthy  of  my  own  honor. 

Luckily,  I  found  Mrs.  Poyntz  alone,  and,  taking  in  both  mine 
hand  she  somewhat  coldly  extended  tome,  1  said,  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  suppressed  emotion  : 

"You  observed,  when  I  lasl  saw  you.  that  I  had  not  yet  asked 
you  to  be.my  friend.  I  ask  it  now.  Listen  to  me  with  all  the  in- 
dulgence you  can  vouchsafe,  and  let  me  at  least  profit  by  your 
counsel  if  you  refuse  to  give  me  your  aid." 

Rapidly,  briefly,  I  went  on  to  say'  how  I  had  first  seen  Lilian, 
and  how  sudden,  how  strange  to  myself  had  been  the  impression 
which  that  first  sight  of  her  had  produced. 

"You  remarked  the  change  that  had  come  over  me,"  said  I; 
"  you  divined  the  cause  before  I  divined  it  myself;  divined  it  as  1 
sat  there  beside  you,  thinking  that  through  you  I  might  see,  in  the 
freedom  of  social  intercourse,  the  face  thai  was  then  daunting  me. 
You  know  what  has  since  passed.  Miss  Ashleigh  is  ill;  her  case 
is,  I  am  convinced,  wholly  misunderstood.  All  other  feelings  are 
merged  in  one  sense  of  anxiety — of  alarm.  But  it  has  become  due 
to  all,  due  to  me,  to  incur  the  risk  of  your  ridicule  even  more  than 
of  your  reproof,  by  stating  to  you  thus  candidly,  plainly,  bluntly, 
the  sentiment  which  renders  alarm  so  poignant,  and  which,  if 
scarcely  admissable  to  the  romance  of  some  wild  dreamy  boy,  may 
seem  an  unpardonable  folly  in  a  man  of  my  years  and  my  sober 
calling  ;  due  to  me,  to  you,  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh  ;  because  still  the  dear- 
est, thing  in  life  to  me  is  honor.  And  if  you,  who  know  Mrs.  Ash- 
leigh so  intimately,  who  must  be  more  or  less  aware  of  her  plans  or 
wishes  for  her  daughter's  future  ;  if  you  believe  that  those  plans 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  41 

or  wishes  lead  to  h  lot  far  more  ambitious  than  an  alliance  with 
me  could  offer  to  Miss  Ashleigh,  then  aid  Mr.  Vigors  in  excluding 
me  from  the  ho  I  nae  in  suppressing  imptuous,  vis- 

ionary passion.     I  cannot  enter  that  house  without  Idve  and 
at  my  heart.     And  the  threshold  of  that  house  I  must    not  cross, 
if  such  love  and  such  hope  would  be  a  sin  and  a  treachery  in 
eyes  of  its  owner.     I  might  restore  Miss  Ashleigh  to  health;  her 
gratitude  mighl — 1  cannot  continue.     This  danger  must  nol  be  to 
me  nor  to  her,  if  her  mother    has  views  far  ab  i  a  son-in- 

law.     And  1  am  the  more  hound  to  consider  all  this  while 

use  1  heard  you  state  that.  Miss  Ashieigfb  had  a  for- 

— was  what    would  he  here  termed  an  heiress.     And  the  full 

conscious!. ess    that  whatever  fame  one  in  my  profession  may  live 

to  acquire  dc.es  noi  open  those  vistas  of  social  power  and  grandeur 

•  opened  by  professions  to  my  ey< 
selves — thai  lull  consciousness,  i  say.  was  forced  upon  me  by  cer- 
words  of  your  own.     For  the  rest,  you  Know  i  it.  is 

sufficiently    recognized  as  that   amidst   well-horn  gentry  to 
rendered  me  no  mesalliance  to  families  the  most    proud  of  their 
ancestry,  if  I  had  kept  my   hereditary  estate  and  avoided  the  ca- 
reer that  makes  me  useful  to  man.     lint  I  acknowledge  th  i 
entering- a  profession  such  as  mine — entering  any  profession  «•: 
thai  of  arms  or  the  Senate — all  leave  their  pedigree  at  its  door,  an 
erased  or  dead  letter.      All  must  come  as  equals,  high-bom  or   low- 
horn,  into  that  arena  in  which  men  ask  aid  from  a  man  as  he  makes 
i  If;  to  them  his  dead  forefathers  are  idle  dust.     Therefore,  to 
the  advantage  of  birth  i  cease  to   have  a  claim.     I  am  but  a  pro- 
vincial physician,  whose  station  would  be  the  same  had  he  In 
cobbler's  son.     But  gold- retains  its  grand  privilege   in  all  ranks. 
He  who  has  gold  is  removed  from  the  suspicion  thai  attaches  to  the 
grecd>'  fortune-hunter.    My  private  fortune,  swelled  by  my  saw 
is  sufficient  to  secure  to  any  one  1  married  a  larger  settlement  than 
many  a  wealthy  squire  can  make.     I  need  le  with  a  wife; 

if  she  have  one,  it  would  he  settled  on  herself.  Pardon  these  vul- 
gar details.     Now,  have  I  made  myself  r  ;  I" 

"  Fully,"  answered  the  Queen  of  the  Hill,  who  had  listened  to 
me  quietly,  watchfully,  and  without  one  interruption. 

"  Fully.     And  you  have  done  well  to  confide  in  me  with  so  gen- 
erous an    unreserve.     Bui  before  1  say  further,  let  me  ask,  what 
would  he  your  advice  for  Lilian,  supposing  that  you  ought    i: 
attend   her  I     You  have  no   trust  in  Dr.  Jones ;  neither  have  I. 
And  Ann.  jb's  note  received  to-day,  begging  me  to  call, 

justifies  your  alarm.  Still  you  think  there  is  no  tendency  to  con- 
sumption 

"    M  that  I  am  Certain,  so' 1  I  glimpse  of  a 

to  me,  however,  seems  a  simple  ncommon  one,  wiH  per- 

mit, i  ut  in  the  a  ternative  you  put — that  my  own  skill,  whatever 
its   worth,  is  forbidden — my  earnest,  advice  is  that  Mrs.  Ashleigh 


42  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

should  take  her  daughter  at  once  to  London,  and  consult  there 
those  great  authorities  to  whom  I  cannot  compare  my  own  opinion 
or  experience ;  and  by  their  counsel  abide." 

Mrs.  Poyntz  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  for  a  few  moments, 
and  seemed  in  deliberation  with  herself.  Then  she  said,  with  her 
peculiar  smile,  half  grave,  half  ironical : 

"  In  matters  more  ordinary  you  would  have  won  me  to  your  side 
long  ago.  That  Mr.  Vigors  should  have  presumed  to  cancel  my 
recommendation  to  a  settler  on  the  Hill,  wTas  an  act  of  rebellion, 
and  involved  the  honor  of  my  prerogative.  But  I  suppressed  my 
1  indignation  at  an  affront  so  unusual,  partly  out  of  pique  against 
yourself,  but  much  more,  I  think,  out  of  regard  for  you." 

"  I  understand.  You  detected  the  secret  of  my  heart;  you  knew 
that  Mrs.  Ashleigh  would  not  wish  to  see  her  daughter  the  wife  of 
a  provincial  physician." 

"Am  I  sure,  or  are  you  sure,  that  the  daughter  herself  would 
accept  that  fate  ;  or  if  she  accepted  it,  would  not  repent  I  " 

"  Do  not  think  me  the  vainest  of  men  when  I  say  this — that  I 
cannot  believe  I  should  be  so  enthralled  by  a  feeling  at  war  with 
my  reason,  unfavored  by  any  thing  1  can  detect  in  my  habits  of 
mind,  or  even  by  the  dreams  of  a  youth  which  exalted  science  and 
excluded  love,  unless  1  was  intimately  convinced  that  Miss  Ash* 
leigh's  heart  was  free — that  1  could  win,  and  that  I  could  keep  it  ! 
Ask  me  why  I  am  convinced  of  this,  and  I  can  tell  you  no  more 
why  I  think  that  she  could  love  me,  than  I  can  tell  you  why  1 
love  her ! " 

"  I  am  of  the  world,  worldly.  But  I  am  woman,  womanly — 
though  I  may  not  care  to  be  thought  it.  And  therefore,  though 
what  you  say  is — regarded  in  a  world!)'  point  of  view,  sheer  non- 
sense— regarded  in  a  womanly  point  of  view  it  is  logically  sound. 
But  still  you  cannot  know  Lilian  as  I  do.  Your  nature  and  hers 
are  in  strong  contrast.  I  do  not  think  she  is  a  safe  wife  for  you. 
The  purest,  the  most  innocent  creature  imaginable,  certainly  that, 
but  always  in  the  seventh  heaven.  And  you  in  the  seventh  heaves 
just  at  this  moment,  but  with  an  irresistible  gravitation  to  the  solid 
earth,  which  will  have  its  way  again  when  the  honeymoon  is  over. 
I  do  not  believe  you  two  would  harmonize  by  intercourse.  1  do 
not  believe  Lilian  would  sympathize  with  you,  and  I  am  sure  you 
could  not  sympathize  with  her  throughout  the  long  dull  course  of 
this  work-day  life.  And  therefore,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  hers,  I 
was  not  displeased  to  find  that  Dr.  Jones  had  replaced  you ;  and 
now,  in  return  for  your  frankness,  I  say,  frankly — do  not  go  again 
tothat  house.  Conquer  this  sentiment,  fancy,  passion,  whatever  it 
be.  And  I  will  advise  Mrs.  Ashleigh  to  take  Lilian  to  town. 
Shall  it  be  so  settled  \" 

I  could  not  speak.  I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands — misery, 
misery,  desolation  b  I  know  not  how  long  I  remained  thus  silent, 
perhaps  many  minutes.     At  length  I  felt  a  cold,  firm,  but  not.  un- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  -H 

gentle  hand  placed  upon  mine  ;  and  a  clear,  full,  hut  not  discour- 
aging voice  said  to  me  : 
•'  Leave  me  to  think  well  over  this  conversation,  and  to  ponder 

well  the  value  of  all  you  have  shown  that  you  so  deeply  Peel.  The 
interests  of  life  do  not  till  both  scales  of  the  balance.  The  heart 
which  does  not  always  go  in  the  same  scale  with  the  interests,  still 
has  its  weight  in  the  scale  opposed  to  them.  I  have  heard  a  few 
wise  men  say,  as  many  a  silly  woman  says.  '  Better  in:  unhappy 
will)  one  we  love,  than  he  happy  with  one  we  love  not."  1  >c 
say  that,  too?" 

"With  ever\'  thought   of  my  brain,  every  he.it   of  my  pull 
say  it." 

"After  that  answer,  all  my  questionings  cease.     You  shall  hear 

from   me  fco-morrow.     By  thai   time   I   shall   have  seen  Anne  and 

Lilian.     1  shall  have  weighed  both  scales  of  the   balanoe,  and  the 

heart  here.   Allen  I'Yuwiek.  seems  very  heavy.     Go,  now.     1  hear 

tie  stairs.     Poyntz  bringing  up  some  friendly,  gossiper ; 

ere  are  spies." 

I  passed  my  hand  over  my  eyes,  tearless,  but  how  tears  would 
have  relieved  the  anguish  that  burdened  them!  and.  without  a 
word,  went  down  the  stairs,  meeting  at  the  landing-place  Colonel 
Poyntz  and  the  old  roan  whose  pain  my  prescription  had  cured. 
The  old  man  was  whistling  a  merry  tunc,  perhaps  first  learned  on 
the  play-ground,  lie  broke  from  it  to  thank,  almost  to  embrace 
hie.  as  [  slid  hy.him.  I  seized  Ids  jocund  blessing  as  a  good  omen, 
and  carried  it  with  me  as  1  passed  into  the  broad  sunlight.  .Soli- 
tan — solitary.     Should  i  he  so  evermore  1 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


The  next  day  I  bad  just  dismissed  the  last  of  my  visiting 
patients,  and  was  aboul  to  enter  my  Carriage  and  commence  my 
round,  when  1  received  a.  twisted  note  containing  hut  these  w'ords  : 

"Call  iii)  me  to-day,  .-;s  soon  as  you  can. 

M.  P6yntz." 

A  few  minutes  afterward   1  was  in  Mrs.  l'ovntz's  drawing-room. 

"  Well,  Allen  Fenwick,"  said  she,  "  I  do  not  serve  friends  hy 
halves.  No  thanks!  I  hut  adhere  to  a  principle  I  have  laid 
down  for  myself.  I  spent  last  evening  with  the  Ashleigh's.  Lilian 
is  certainly  much  altered — very  weak,  1  fear  very  ill,  and  I  believe 
very  unskilfully  treated  hy  Dr.  Jones.  1  felt  that:  il  was  my  duly 
to  insist  on  a  change  of  physician,  hut  there  was  something  else  to 
consider  before  deciding  who  that  physician  should  he.  i  was 
bound,  as  your  confidant,  to  consult  your  own  scruples  of  honor. 


44  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

Of  course  I  could  not  say  point-blank  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  Dr.  Fen- 
wick  admires  your  daughter,  would  you  object  to  him  as  a  son-in- 
law  }.  Of  course  I  could  not  touch  at  all  on  the  secret  with  which 
you  intrusted  me;  but  I  have  not  the  less  arrived  at  a  conclusion, 
in  agreement  with  my  previous  belief,  that  not  being  a  woman  of 
the  world,  Anne  Ashleigh  has  none  of  the  ambition  which  women 
of  the  world  would  conceive  for  a  daughter  who  has  a  good  fortune 
and  considerable  beauty  ;  that  her  predominant  anxiety  is  for  her 
child's  happiness,  and  her  predominant  fear  is  that  her  child  will 
die.  She  would  never  oppose  any  attachment  which  Lilian  might 
form,  and  if  that  attachment  were  for  one  who  had  preserved  her 
daughter's  life,  I  believe  her  own  heart  would  gratefully  go  with 
her  daughter's.  So  far,  then,  as  honor  is  concerned,  all  scruples 
vanish." 

I  sprang  from  my  se  it  with  joy.     Mrs.  Poyntz  dryly 

continued:  "You  value,  yourself  on  your  common  sense,  and  to 
that  I  address  a  few  won  unsel  which  may  not  lie  welcome 

to  your  romance.  I  said  that  1  did  not  think  you  and  Lilian  would 
suit  each  other  in  the  long-run  ;  reflection  confirms  me  in  thai 
position.  l)o  not  look  at  me  so  incredulously  and  so  sadly.  Li 
and  take  heed.  Ask  yourself  what,  as  a  man  whose  days  arc  de- 
voted to  a  laborious  profession,  whose  ambition  is  entwined  with 
its  success,  whose  mind  must  be  absorbed  in  its  pursuits — ask 
yourself  what  kind  of  wife  you  would  have  sought  to  win,  had  not 
this  sudden  fancy  for  a  eharaiii  rushed  over  your  b 

reason,  and  obliterated  all  previous  plans  and  resolutions.  Surely 
some  one  with  whom  your  heart  would  have  been  quite  at  rest ; 
by  whom  your  thoughts  would  have  been  undistracted  from  the 
channels  into  which  your  calling  shop.:  their  flow  ;  in 

rene  companion  in  the  quiet  holiday  of  a  trustful  h 
Is  it  not  so'?" 

"  V  ret  my  own  thoughts  when  they  have  turned  toward 

marri  .  Lilian  Ashleigh  that  should  mar 

the  picture  ymt  have  drawn  !  " 

"  What  is  there  in  Lilian  Ashleigh  which  in  the  least  accords 
with  the  picture  ?  In  the  first  place,  the  wife  of  a  young  physician 
should  not  be  his  perpetual  patient.  The  more  he  loves  her,  and 
the  more  worthy  she  may  lie  of  love,  the  more  her  case  will  haunt 
him  wherever  lie  goes.     When  he  returns  home,  it  is  not  to  a  holi- 

:  the  patient  he  most  cares  for,  the  anxiety  that  most  g] 
him,  awaits  them  there." 

Heavens !  why  should  Lilian  Ashleigh  be  a  perpe- 
tual patient]  The  sanitary  resources  of  youth  are  incalculable. 
And—"  , 

"Let  me  stop  you;  I  cannot  argue  against  a  physician  in  love  ! 
I  will  give  up  that  point  in  dispute,  remaining  convinced  that  there 
is  a  something  in  Lilian's  constitution  which  will  perplex,  torment, 
and  baffle  you.     It  was  so  with  her  father,  whom  she  resembles-in 


A    8TRANUE    STORY.  4-5 

face  and  in  (character,  lie  showed  no  symptoms  of  any  grave 
malady.  Ills  outward  form  was  like  Lilian's,  a  model  of  symmetry, 
except  in  this,  thai,  like he'rsj  it  was  too  exquisitely  delicate;  but, 
when  seemingly  in  the  midst  of  perfect  health,  at  any  slight  jar  on 

e*ves  he  would  become  alarmingly  ill.    1  was  sure  thi 
would  die  young,  and  he  did  so." 

"  Ay,  but  Mra.  Ashleigh  said  that  his   death  was   from  brain- 
On    by  over-study.     Rarely,  indeed,  do  women  so 
tie  the  brain.    No  female  patient,  in  the  range  of  my  pra 
eve.-  died  i  f  purely  mental  exertion." 

"  Of  purely  mental  exertion,  no;    but  of   heart   emotion   many 
female  patients,  perhaps]     <  »h.  you   own   that;    I  know  nothing 
about  nerves.     But  I  suppose  that,  whether  they  act  on  tfae  brain 
or  the  heart,  the  result  to  life  is  much  the  same  if  the  nerves  1 
strung  for  lit  car   and  tear.     And  this   is  wl 

mean  ay  you  and  Lilian  will  not  suit .  I   she  is  a 

child:    h  I  .1    her   affection,  there- 

fore, untried.     £ou  migl  •  that   you  had  won   I 

she  might  believe  that  she  gave  ii   to  both  be  deceived. 

If  fairies  nowadays  condescended   to  exchange  their  offspring 
mortals,  and  if  the  popular  tradition  d 
changeling  as  an  ugly,  peevish  cr 

s  parents,  i  be  half  inclined  to  suspect  that  Lilian 

one  of  the  elfin  people.     She  ne\  sr  >  earth  ;  and  I 

do  not  think  she  will  ever  be  contented  With    a   prosaic  earthly  lot. 
iu  why  1   do  not  think  I    you.     I 

mast  leave  it  to  yourself  to  o  ■  how  tar  you  would  suit 

I  say  this  iu  due  season,  while  you  may  upon  im- 

■  ;  while  you  ma}'  yet  watch,  ami   weigh,  and 
from  tliis  moment  on  that  subjeel  I  say  no   more.     1   lend   a 
.lever  thfow  it  away." 
She  came  here  to  a  dead  pause,  and   befan   putting  on  her  hor- 
net ami  scarf  whic,h  lay  on  the  table   beside,  her.     1  was  a  little 
chilled  by  her  words,  and  yet  i  the  blunt,  slm  d  look 

and  manner  which  aided  the  effect  of  their  delivery.     But  the 
me!;.  a   the    sudden   glow  of   my  heart    when    sir.-    again 

''Of  course  you  guess,  from  these  preliminary  cautious,  that  you 
are  going  into  danger  ?     Mrs.  Ashleigh  wishes  to  consult  you  about 
ie  to  take  you  to  her  hoi 
"  ( )li,  my  friend,  my  dear  friend,  how   can    I    ever  repays 
her  hand,  the  white,  firm  hand,  and  lifted  it  to  ray  li 

somewhat  hastily  away,  and  laying-  it  gently  on  my 

Ider,  said,  in  a  soft  voice,  "  Poor  Allen,  how   little    the  world 

.s  either  of  us  I     Bwt   how  little," perhaps,  do  we  know  our- 

.  your  carriage  is  here  .'     That  is  right  ;  we  must  put 

down  Dr.  Jones  publicly  and  in  all  our  st; 

lu  the  carriage  .Mrs.  Pointz  told   me  the  purport  of  that  convcr- 


46  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

sation  with  Mrs.  Ashleigh  to  which  I  owed  my  reintroduction  to 
Abbots'- House.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Vigors' had  called  early  the 
morning  after  ray  first  visit ;  had  evinced  much  discomposure  on, 
hearing  that  I  had  been  summoned  ;  dwelt  much  on  my  injurious 
treatment  of  Dr  Lloyd,  whom,  as  distantly  related  to  himself,  and  he 
(Mr.  Vigors,)  being  distantly  connected  to  the  late  Gilbert  Ashleigh, 
he  endeavored  to  fasten  upon  his  listener  as  one  of  her  husband's 
family,  whose  quarrel  she  was  bound  in  honor  to  take  up.  He  ' 
spoke  of  me  as  an  infidel  "tainted  with  French  doctrines,"  and  as 
a  practitioner  rash  and  presumptuous,  proving  his  own  freedom 
presumption  and  rashness  by  daily  deciding  that  my  opinion 

must  be  wrong.     Previous  to  Mrs.  Ashleigii's  migration  to  L , 

Mr.  Vigors  had  interested  her  in  the  pretended  phenomena  of  mes- 
merism. He  had  consulted  a  clairvoyant  much  esteemed  by  poor 
Dr.  Lloyd,  as  to  Lilian's  health,  and  the  clairvoyant!;;  red 

her  to  be  constitutionally  predisposed  to  consumption.     Mr.  \  i 
persuaded  Mrs.  Ashleigh  to  come  at   once  with  him  and  see  this 
clairvoyant  herself,  armed  with  a  lock  of  Lilian's  hair  and  a  glove 
she  had  worn,  as  the  media  of  mesmerieal  rapport. 

The  clairvoyant,  one  of  those  I  had  publicly  denounced  as  an 
impostei",  naturally  enough  denounced  me  in  return.  On  b< 
asked  solemnly  by  -Air.  Vigors  "to  look  at  Dr.  Fenwiefa  and  see  if 
his  influence  would  be  beneficial  to  the  subject,"  the  sibyl  had  he- 
come  violently  agitated,  said  that,  "  when  she  Looked  at  us  together, 
we  were  enveloped  in  a  black  cloud  ;  thai  this  portended  affliction 
and  sinister  consequences;  that  our  rapport  was  antagoni 
Mr.  Vigors  then  told  her  to  dismiss  my  image  ami  conjure  up  that 
of  Dr.  Jones.  Therewith  the  somnambule  became  more  tranquil, 
and  said  "Dr.  Jones  world  do  well  if  he  would  he  guided  by 
higher  lights  than  his  own  skill,  and  consult  herself  daily  as  to  the 
proper  remedies.  The  besl  remedy  of  all  would  he  mesmerism. 
But  since  Dr.  Lloyd's  death  she  did  not  know  of  a  mesmerist, suffi- 
ciently gifted,  in  affinity  with  the  patient.''  In  line,  she  impressed 
and  awed  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  who  returned  in  haste,  summoned  Dr. 
Junes,  and  dismissed  myself. 

"I  could   not   have   conceived    Mrs.  Ashleigh  to   he   so  till. 
wanting  in  common  sense,"  said  1.     "  She  talked  rationally  em 
when  1  saw  her." 

'•She  has  common  sense  in    general,  and  plenty  of  tl 
most  common,"  answered   Mrs.  Pointz.     "  Put   she  is  easily 
and  easily  frightened  wherever   her    affections  are  concerned,  and 
therefore  just  as  easily  as  site  had   been   persuaded  by  Mr.  Yi_ 
and  terrified  by  the  somnambule,  I   persuaded  her  against  the  one, 
aud  terrified  her  against  the  other.     I  had   positive   experience  on 
my  side,  since  it  was  clear  that  Lilian   had  been    getting  rapidly 
worse  under  Dr.  Jones's  care.     The  main  objections  I   had  to  en- 
counter in  inducing  her   to   consult   you   again   were,  first,  in  Mrs. 
Ashleigh's  reluctance  to  disoblige  Mr.  Vigors,  as  a  friend  aud  cou- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  47 

nectiou  of  Lilian's  father  ;  and,  secondly,  a  sentiment  of  shame  in 
reinviting  your  opinion  after  having  treated  you  with  so  little  re- 
spect. Both  these  difficulties  J  took  upon  myself,  i  bring  you  to 
her  house,  and,  on  leaving  you,  I  shall  go  on  bo  Mr.  Vigors, 
tell  hhu  what  is  clone  is  my  doing,  and  not  to  be  undone  by  him;  so 
that  matter  is  settled,  indeed,  it'  you  were  out  of  the  question,  I 
should  not  sutler  Mr.  Vigors  to  reintroduce  all  these  mummeries  of 
clairvoyance  and  mesmerism  into  the  precincts  of  the  Hill.  I  did 
no!  demolish  a  man  1  really  liked  in  Dr.  Lloyd,  to  set  up  a  Dr. 
Jones,  whom  1  despise,  in  his  stead.  Clairvoyance  on  Abbey  Hill, 
indeed!     1  saw  enough  of  ii  before." 

"True;  your  strong  intellect  detected  at  once  the  absurdity  of 
the  whole  pretence — the  falsity  of  mesmerism — the  impossibility 
of  clairvoyance." 

"  No,  my  strong  intellect  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  do  not 
know  whether  mesmerism  be  false  or  clairvoyance  impossible;  and 
I  don't  wish  to  know.  All  1  do  know  is,  thai  1  saw  the  Hill  in 
great  danger;  young  ladies  allowing  themselves  to  be  put  to  sleep 
by  gentlemen,  ami  pretending  they  had  no  will  of  their  own  against 
such  fascination !  Improper  and  shocking !  And  Miss  Brab 
beginning  to  prophesy,  and  '  ioning  her 

maid  (whom  Dr.  Lloyd  declared   to  be  highly  gifted)  as  to  all 

fcs  of  her  friends.     When  1  saw  this,  1  said, 'The  liiil  is 
demoralized;  the  Hill  is '.waking  itself  ridiculous ;   the  Hill  must 
be  saved  ! '     I  remonstrated  with  Dr.  Lloyd  as  a    friend;    he  re- 
mained pbdurate.     1  annihilated  him  as  an   enemy,  not  to  me,  but 
to  the  State.     1  slew  m.  rer  for    the  good  of  Lome.     Now 

you  know  why  I  took  your  part ;    nol   because  1  h<.  inion 

one  way  or  the   other    as   to    the    truth    or   falsehood  of  what  Dr. 
Lloyd  asserted;   but:  1  have  a  strong  opinion  that  whether  the; 

r  false,  his  notions  were  those  which  are  not  to  he  allowed  014 
the  Hill.     Arid  so,  Allen  Lenwick,  the  matter  was  settled." 

.Perhaps  at  another  time  1  might:  have  felt  some  little  humiliation 
to  learn  that  1  had  been  honored  with  the  influence  of  this  great 
potentate,  not  as  a  champion  of  truth,  but  as  an  instrument  of 
policy;  and  I  might  have  owned  to  some  twinge  of  conscience  in 
having  assisted  to  sacrifice  a  seeker  after  science — misled,  no  doubt, 
but  [metering  his  independent  belief  to  his  woi  Lily  interest — and 
sacrifice  him  to  those  deities  with  whom  science  is  ever  at  war — the 
Prejudices  of  a  Clique  sanctified  into  the  Propsieties  of  the  world. 
But  at  that  moment  the  words  1  heard  made  no  perceptible  impres- 
sion on  my  mind.  The  gables  of  Abbots'  House  were  visible 
above  tiie  evergreens  and  lilacs;  another  moment,  and  the  carriage" 
stopped  at  the  door. 


48  A    STRAfJtfB    STO*Y. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Lshlbigh  received  us  in  the  dining-room.    Her  manner 

to  me,  at  first,  was  a'  lit1 1  ed  and  shy.     But  my  companion 

something-  of  her  own  happy  ease  to  her  gentler 

After  a  short  conv<  ■  went  to  Lilian, 

who  was  in  a  little  room  en  the  ground  floor,  fitted  up  as  her  study. 

I  to  perceive  that  my  interdict  of  the  death  chamber  had 

She  reclined  on  window,  which  was,  however, 

ed;    the  light  of  the  bright   May-day  obscured  by 

the  hearth  ;    the  air  of  the 

;  !.    insensible,   exploded 

;  are  confined  on  sus- 

we  entered  m  ;   her 

ad  with  difficulty  I  i 

lips  on  seeing  her.      She 

iMiin  the  i  red,  and   on  the  aspect  of 

d  a  melancholy.    But  as  she 

slowl;  ihd  of  our  footsteps,  and  her  eyes  met  mine, 

into  the  :  she  half  sank 

her.     T 

.,]  a  low  h  Was'i    possible  that  I  hail  been 

in  that  <  arning  knell  of 

hful  life  ] 

I   sal   down  by  her  side.  *  1   lured  her  on  to  talk  of  indifferent 

Jul  gardens,  the  bird  in  the  cage,  which 

her.     Her  voice,  at  first  lo\ 
feeble  >\  and   ber  face  lighted  up  with 

.■•ait  pla;  '       :  had  not  been  mis 

I  was  no  iympl  ment  on  which  consump- 

its  lawful  prey — h  hectic  pulse,  no 

ried  waste  of' the  vltai  flame.     Quietly  and  I 

observations,  addressed  my  que  plied   my   stethesc 

and  when   I  turned  n.;  wards  her  mother's  anxious,  i 

eyes,  that  face  .  for  her  mother  sprang  forward,  cl 

:!i  her  struggling  tears, 
.    "You  smile!     You  see  nothing 'to  fear?/' 

"Fear — no,  indeed!      You  will  soon   be  again  yourself,  Miss 
Ashleigh,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  '•  I  shall  be  well 

very  soon.     But  may  I  not  have  the  window  open  .'may  I  not  go 
into  the  garden  ?     I  so  long  for  fresh  air." 

"No,  no,  darling,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ashleigh,    "not  while  the 


A   STRANGE   STORY.  49 

cast  winds  last.     Dr.  Jones  said  on  no  account.     On  no  account. 
Dr.  Fenwick,  eh  ?" 

"Will  you  take  my  arm,  Miss  Ashleigh,  and  walk  about  the 
room?"    said    I.     "We    will    then    see    how  far  we  may  rebel 

against  Dr.  Jones." 

She  rose  with  some  little  effort,  hut  {here  was  no  cough.  At 
first  her  step  was  languid — it  became  lighter  and  more  clastic 
after  a  few  moments. 

"Let  her  come  out."  said  T  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh.  "  The  wind  is 
riot  in  the  east,  and,  while  we  are  out,  pray  hid  your  servant 
lower  to  the  last  bar  in  the  grate,  that  fire — only  fit  for  Christ- 
inas." 

"  I  Jut— " 

"  Ah,  no  huts.      He  is  a  poor  doctor  who  is  not  a  stem  despot." 

So  the  straw  hat  and  mantle  were  sent  for.  Lilian  was  wrapped 
with  unnecessary  care,  and  we  all  went  forth  into  the  garden. 
Involuntarily  we  took  the  way  to  the  monk's  well,  and  at  every 
step  Lilian  seemed  to  revive  under  the  bracing  air  and  temperate 
sun.     We  paused  by  the  well. 

"You  do  not  led  fatigued,  Miss  Ashleigh  t" 

"No." 

"  But  your  face  seems  changed.     It  is  grown  sadder. 

"  Not  sadder." 

"  Sadder  than  when  1  firsl  saw  it — saw  it  when  you  were  seated 
here  ! "  I  said  this  in  a  whisper.  I  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  it 
lay  on  my  arm. 

"  You  saw  me  seated  here  !" 

"Yes.     I  will  teU.you  how  someday." 

Lilian  lifted  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  there  was  in  them  that  same 
surprise  which  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  visit — a  surprise  that 
perplexed  me,  blended  with  no  displeasure,  but  yet  with  a  some- 
thing of  vague  alarm. 

We  soon  returned  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  made  me  a  sign  to  follow  her  into  the  drawing- 
room,  leaving  Mrs.  Poyntz  with  Lilian. 

"  Well  ?"  said  she,  tremblingly. 

"Permit  me  to  see  Dr.  Jones's  prescriptions.  Thank  you. 
Ay,  I  thought  so.  My  dear  Madam,  the  mistake  here  has  been 
in  depressing  nature  instead  of  strengthening;  in  narcotics  in- 
stead of  Btimulants.  The  main  stimulants  which  leave  no  reac- 
tion are  air  and  light.  Promise  me  that  I  may  have  my  own  way 
for  a  week  ;  that  all  I  recommend  will  be  implicitly  heeded  I" 

"  I  promise.     But  that  cough  ;  you  noticed  it?" 

"  lea.  The  nervous  system  is  terribly  lowered,  and  nervous 
exhaustion,  is  a  strange  impostor — if  imitates  all  manner  of  .com- 
plaints with  which  it  has  no  connection.  The  cough  will  soon  dis- 
appear !  But  pardon  my  question.  Mrs.  Poyntz  tells  me  that  you 
4 


50  A    STRANttE    STOKV. 

consulted  a  clairvoyant  about  your  <  aught er.     Does  Miss  Ashleigh 
know  that  you  did  so  1 " 

"  Mo,  I  did  not  tell  her." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  And  pray,  for  Heaven's  salve,  guard  her 
against  all  that  may  set  her  thinking  on  such  subjects.  Above  all, 
guard  her  against  concentring  attention  on  any  malady  that  your 
fears  erroneously  ascribe  to  her.  It  is  among  the  phenomena  of 
our  organization  that  you  cannot  closely  rivet  your  conscious- 
ness on  any  part  of  the  frame,  however  healthy,  but  it  will 
soon  begin  to  exhibit  morbid  sensibility.  Try  to  fix  all  your  atten- 
tion on  your  little  finger  for  half  an  hour,  and  before  the  half 
hour  is  over  the  little  finger  will  be  uneasy,  probably  even  painful. 
How  serious  then  is  the  danger  to  a  young  girl  at  the  age  in  which 
imagination  is  most  active,  most  intense,  if  you  force  upon  her  a 
belief  that  she  is  in  danger  of  a  mortal  disease  ;  it  is  a  peculiarity  of 
youth  to  brood  over  the  thoughl  of  early  death  much  more  re 
signeuly,  much  more  complacently,  than  we  do  in  maturer  years. 
Impress  on  a  young  imaginative  girl,  as  free  from  pulmonary  ten- 
dencies as  you  and  I  are,  the  conviction  that  she  must  fade  away 
into  the  grave,  and  though  slie  may  not  actually  die  of  consump- 
tion, you  instill  slow  poison  into  her  system.  Hope  is  the  natural 
aliment  of  youth.  You  impoverish  nourishment  where  you  dis- 
courage hope.  as  this  temporary  illness  is  over,  reject  for 
your  daughter  the  melancholy  care  which  seems  to  her  own  mind 
to  mark  her  out  from  others  of  her  age.  Bear  her  for  the  air — 
which  is  the  kindest  life-giver;  to  sleep  with  open  windows;  lobe 
out  at  sunrise.  Nature  will  do  more  for  her  than  all  our  drugs  can 
do.     You  have  been  hitherto  fearing  nature,  now  trust  to  her.'' 

Here  JWrs.  Poyntz  joined  us,  and  having,  while  1  had  been  speak- 
ing, written  my  prescription  and  some  general  injunctions,  I  closed 
my  advice  with  an  appeal  to  that  powerful  protectress. 

"  This,  my  dear  Madam,  is  a  case  in  which  1  need  your  aid,  and 
1  ask  it.  Miss  Ashleigh  should  not  lie  left  with  no  other  com- 
panion than  her  mother.  A  change  offaces  is  often  as  salutary  as 
a  change  of  air.  If  you  could  devote  an  hour  or  two  this  very 
evening  to  sit  with  Miss  Ashleigh,  to  talk  to  her  with  your  usual 
easy  cheerfulness,  and — " 

"  Anne,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Poyntz,  "  I  will  come  and  drimV 
with  you  at  half-past  seven,  and  bring  my  knitting  ;    and  perhaps, 
if  you  ask  him,  Dr.  Fenwick  will  come  too  !     He  can  he  tolerably 
entertaining  when  he  likes  it." 

"  It  is  too  great  a  tax  on  his  kindness,  I  fear,"  said  Mrs.  Ash- 
leigh. "  But,"  she  added,  cordially,  "  I  should  he  grateful  indeed 
if  he  would  spare  us  an  hour  of  his  time." 

I  murmured  an  assent,  which  I  endeavored  to  make  not  too 
joyous. 

"  So  that  matter  is  settled,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz  ;  "  and  now  I  shall 
go  to  Mr.  Vigors,  and  prevent  his  further  interference." 


A    STRANGE    8T0RY.  51 

"Oh!  but,  Margaret,  pray  dont  offend  him;  a  connection  of  my 
poor  dear  Gilbert's.  And  so  techy!  I  am  sura  I  do  not  know 
how  you'll  manage  to — " 

"  To  get  rid  of  him  ?  Never  fear.  As  I  manage  everything 
and  everybody,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  bluntly.  Bo  she  kissed  her 
friend  on  the  forehead,  gave  me  a  gracious  nod,  and/declining  the 
offer  of  my  carriage,  walked  with  her  usual  brisk,  decided  tread 
down  the  short  path  toward  the  town. 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  timidly  approached  me.  and  again  the  furtive  hand 
bashfully  insinuating  the  hateful   fee  ! 

"Stay,"  said  1  ;  "this  is  a  case  which  needs  the  most  constant 
watching.  I  wish  to  call  so  often  that  1  should  seem  the  most 
greedy  of  doctors  if  my  visits  were  to  he  computed  at  guineas. 
Let  me  he  at  ease  to  effect  my  cure  ;  my  pride  of  science  is  in- 
volved in  it.  And  when  among  all  the  young  ladies  of  the  Hill 
you  can  point  to  none  with  a  fresher  hloom,  or  a  fairer  promise  of 
healthful  life  than  the  patienl  you  intrust  to  my  care,  why,  then  the 
fee  and  the  dismissal.  Nay,  nay  ;  1  must  refer  you  to  our  friend, 
Mrs.  Poyntz.  It  was  so  settled  with  her  before  she  brought  me 
here  to  displace  Dr.  Jones."     Therewith  I  escaped. 


CHAPTER   XV. 


In  less  than  a  week  Lilian  was  convalescent;  in  less  than  a 
fortnight  she  regained  her  usual  health  ;  nay,  Mrs.  Ashleigh  de- 
clared that  she  had  never  known  her  daughter  appear  so  cheerful 
and  look  so  well.  I  had  estahlished  a  familiar  intimacy  at  Abbots' 
House  ;  most  of  my  evenings  were  spent  there.  As  horse  exercise 
formed  an  important  part  of  my  advice,  Mrs.  Ashleigh  had  pur- 
chased a  pretty  and  quiet  horse  for  her  daughter  ;  and,  except  the 
weather  was  very  unfavorable,  Lilian  now  rode  daily  with  Colonel 
Poyatz,  who  was  a  notable  equestrian,  and  often  accompanied  by 
Miss  Jane  Poyntz,  and  other  young  ladies  of  the  Hill.  I  was 
generally  relieved  from  my  duties  in  time  to  join  her  as  she  re- 
turned homeward.  Thus  we  made  innocent  appointments  openly, 
frankly,  in  her  mother's  presence,  she  telling  me  beforehand  in 
what  direction  excursions  had  been  planned  with  Colonel  Poyntz, 
and  I  promising  to  fall  in  with  the  party — if  my  avocations  would 
permit.  At  my  suggestion,  Mrs.  Ashleigh  now  opened  her  house 
almost  even'  evening  to  some  of  the  neighboring  families.  Lilian 
was  thus  habituated  to  the  intercourse  of  young  persons  of  bet 
own  age.  Music  and  dancing  and  childlike  games  made  the  old 
house  gay.  And  the  Hill  gratefully  acknowledged  to  Mrs.  Poyntz 
"  that  the  Ashleighs  were  indeed  a  great  acquisition." 


~j2  a  stjsange  story. 

But  my  happiness  was  uot  uncheckered.  la  thus  unselfishly 
surrounding-  Lilian  with  others,  I  felt  fche  anguish  of  that  jealousy 
which  is  inseparable  from  those  earlier  stages  of  love — when  the 
lover  as  yet  has  won  no  right  to  that  self-confidence  which  can  only 
spring  from  the  assurance  that  he  is  loved. 

In  these  social  reunions  I  remained  aloof  from  Lilian.  I  saw 
her  courted  by  the  gay  young  admirers  whom  her  beauty  and  her 
fortune  drew  around  her  ;  her  soft  face  brightening  in  the  exercise 
of  the  dance,  which  the  gravity  of  my  profession  rather  Hum  my 
years  forbade  me  to  join — and  her  laugh,  so  musically  subdued, 
ravishing  my  ear  and  fretting  my  heart  as  if  the  laugh  were  a 
mockery  on  my  sombre  self  and  my  presumptuous  dreams.  But 
no,  suddenly,  shyly,  her  eyes  would  steal  away  from  those  about 
her,  steal  to  the  corner  in  which  I  sat,  as  if  they  missed  me, 
and,  meeting  my  own  gaze,  their  light  softened  before  they 
turned  away  ;  and  the  color  on  her  cheek  would  deepen,  aud  to 
her  lip  there  came  a  smile  different  from  the  smile  that  it  shed 
on  others.  And  then — and  then — all  jealousy,  all  sadness  van- 
ished, and  I  felt  the  glory  which  blends  with  the  growing  i 
ped. 

In  that  diviner  epoch  of  man's  mysterious  passions,  when  ideas 
ion  and  purity,  vague  and  fugitive  before,  start  forth  and 
Concentre  themselves  round  une  virgin  shape — that  rises  out  from 
creation,  welcomed  by  the  Houries  and  adorned  by  the 
Graces — how  the  thought  that  this  archetype  of  sweetness  and 
iself  from  the  millions,  singles  himself  for  her 
\s  and  lifts  up  his  being.     Though  after  experience 
may  rebuke  the  mortal's  illusion  that-  mistook  for  a  daughter  of 
heaven  a  creature  of  clay  like  himself,  yet  for  a  while  the  illusion 
has  grandeur.     Though  it  comes  from  the  senses  which  shall  later 
ss   and   profane  it,  the  senses  at  first  sink  into  shade,  awed 
and  hushed  by  the  presence  that  charms  them.     All  that  is  bright- 
est and  best  in  the  man  has  soared  up  like  long  dormant  instincts 
of  Heaven,  to  greet  and  to  hallow  what  to  him  seems  lire's  fairest 
dream  of  the  heavenly  !     Take  the  wings  from  the  image  of  Love, 
and  the  go  ars  iVoin  the  form  ! 

Thus,  if  at  niements.jealous  doubt  made  my  torture,  so  the  mo- 
ment's relief  from  it  sufficed  for  my  rapture.     But  I  had  a  cause 
squiet  less  acute  but  less  varying  than  jealousy. 

Despite  Lilian's  recovery  from  the  special  illness  which  had 
more  immediately  absorbed  my  care,  1  remained  perplexed  as  to  its 
cause  and  true  nature.  To  her  mother  I  gave  it  the  convenient 
epithet  of  "  nervous."  But  the  epithet  did  not  explain  to  myself 
all  the  symptoms  I  classified  by  it.  There  was  still,  at  times, 
when  no  cause  was  apparent  or  conjecturable,  a  sudden  change  in 
the  expression  of  her  countenance  ;  in  the  beat  of  her  pulse  ;  the 
eye  would  become  fixed,  the  bloom  would  vanish,  the  pulse  would 
sink  feebler  and  feebler  till  it  could  be  scarcely  felt ;  yet  there  was 


A    STRANGE    STOItV.  38 

no  indication  of  heart  disease,  of  which  such  sudden  lowering  of 
life  is,  in  itself,  sometimes  a  warning  indication.  The  change  would 
pass  away  after  a  few  minutes,  during  which  she  seemed  uncon- 
scious, or,  at  least,  never  spoke — never  appeared  to  heed  what  was 
said  to  her.  But  in  the  expression  of  her  countenance  there  was 
no  character  of  suffering  or  distress;  on  i he  contrary,  a  wondrous 
serenity  that  made  her  beauty  more  beauteous,  her  very  youthful- 
uess  younger ;  and  when  this  spurious  or  partial  kind  of  syn 
passed,  she  recovered  at  once  without  effort,  without  acknowledg- 
ing that  she  had 'fclr  faint  or  unwell,  hut  rather  with  a  sense  of 
recruited  vitality,  as  the  weary  obtain  from  a  sleep.  For  the  rest, 
her  spirits  were  more  generally  light  and  joyous  than  1  should  have 
premised  from  her  mother's  previous  description.  She  would  enter 
mirthfully  into  the  mirth  of  young  companions  round  her;  she  had 
evidently  quick  perceptions  of  the  sunny  sides  of  life;  an  infantine 
gratitude  for  kindness;  an  infantine  joy  in  the  trifles  that  amuse 
only  those  who  delight  in  tastes  pure  and  simple.  But  when  talk 
rose  into  grave  and  more  contemplative  topics,  her  attention  be- 
came earnest  and  absorbed,  and  sometimes  a  rich  eloquence,  such 
as  I  have  never  before  or  since  heard  from  lips  SO  young,  would 
startle  me  first  into  a  wondering  silence,  and  soon  into  a  disap- 
proving alarm.  For  the  thoughts  she  then  uttered  seemed  to  me 
too  fantastic,  too  visionary,  mo  much  akin  to  the  vagaries  of  a  wild 
though  beautiful  imagination.  And  then  I  would  seek  to  check,  to 
sober,  to  distract  fancies  with  which  my  reason  had  no  sympathy, 
and  the  indulgence  of  which  I  regarded  as  injurious  to  the  normal 
functions  of  the  brain. 

When  thus,  sometimes  with  a  chilly  sentence,  sometimes  with  a 
half-sarcastic  laugh,  I  would  repress  outpourings  frank  and  musical 
as  the  songs  .of  a  forest  bird,  she  would  look  at  me  with  a  kind  of 
plaintive  sorrow — sometimes  sigh  and  shiver  as  she  turned  away. 
( )nly  in  these  modes  did  she  show  displeasure  ;  otherwise  ever  sweet 
and  docile,  and  ever,  if,  seeing  that  I  had  pained  her,  I  asked 
forgiveness,  humbling  herself  rather  to  ask  mine,  and  brightening 
our  reconciliation  with  her  angel  smile.  As  yet  I  had  not  dared  to 
speak  of  love  ;  as  yet  I  gazed  on  her  as  the  captive  gazes  on  the 
flowers  and  the  stars  through  the  grating  of  his  cell,  murmuring  to 
himself  "When  shall  the  doors  unclose?" 


54  A    STRANGB    STORY. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  with  wrath  suppressed  in  the  presence  of  the  fair  am- 
bassadress that  Mr.  Vigors  had  received  from  Mrs.  Ppyntz  the 
intelligence  that  I  had  replaced  Dr.  Jones  at  Abbots'  House,  not 
less  abruptly  than  Dr.  Joues  had  previously  supplanted  me.  As 
Mrs.  Poyntz  took  upon  herself  the  whole  responsibility  of  this 
change,  Mr.  Vigors  did  uot  venture  to  condemn  it  to  her  face :  for 
the  Administrator  of  Laws  was  at  heart  no  little  in  awe  of  the 
Autocrat  of  Proprieties :  as  Authority,  howsoever  established,  is 
in  awe  of  Opinion,  howsoever  capricious. 

To  the  mild  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  the  magistrate's  anger  was  more 
deeidedly  manifested.  He  ceased  from  his  visits,  and  in  answer  to 
a  long  and  deprecatory  letter  with  which  she  endeavored  to  soften 
his  resentment  and  win  him  back  to  the  house,  be  replied  by  an 
elaborate  .combination  of  homily  and  satire.  He  began  by  ex- 
cusing himself  from  accepting  her  invitations  on  the  ground  that 
his  time  was  valuable,  his  habits  domestic  ;  and  though  ever  will- 
ing to  sacrifice  both  time  and  habits  where  he  could  do  good,  he 
owed  it  to  himself  and  to  mankind  to  sacrifice  neither  where  his 
advice  was  rejected  and  his  opinion  contemned,  ile  glanced  briefly, 
but  not  hastily,  at  the  respect  with  which  her  late  husband  had  de- 
ferred to  his  judgment,  and  the  benefits  which  that  deference  had 
enabled  him  to  bestow.  He  contrasted  the  husband's  deference 
with  the  widow's  contumely,  and  hinted  at  the  evils  which 
contumely  would  not  permit  him  to  prevent.  He  could  not  pre- 
sume to  say  what  women  of  the  world  might  think  due  to  deceased 
husbands,  but  even  women  of  the  world  generally  allowed  the 
claims  of  living  children,  and  did  not  act  with  levity  where  their 
interests  were  concerned,  still  less  where  their  lives  were  at  stake. 
As  to  Dr.  Jones,  he,  Mr.  Vigors,  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  his 
skill.  Mrs.  Ashleigh  must  judge  for  herself  whether  Mrs.  Poyntz 
was  as  good  an  authority  upon  medical  science  as  he  had  no  doubt 
she  was  upon  shawls  and  ribbons.  Dr.  Joues  was  a  man  of  cau- 
tion aud  modesty ;  he  did  not  indulge  in  the  hollow  boasts  by 
which  charlatans  decoyed  their  dupes  ;  but  Dr.  Jones  had.  private- 
ly assured  him  that  though  the  case  was  one  that  admitted  of  no 
rash  experiments,  he  had  no  fear  of  the  result  if  his  own  prudent 
system  were  persevered  in.  What  might  be  the  consequences  of 
any  other  system  Dr.  Jones  would  not  say,  because  he  was  too 
high-minded  to  express  his  distrust  of  the  rival  who  had  made  use 
of  under-hand  arts  to  supplant  him.  But  Mr.  Vigors  was  con- 
vinced, from  other  sources  of  information  (meaning,  I  presume,  the 


A    STRANOB    SToitY. 

oracular  prescience  of  his  clairvoyants,)  that  the  time  would  come 
when  the  poor  young  lady  herself  would  insist  on  discarding  Dr. 
Fenwick,  and  when  ••Thar  person"  would  appear  in  a  very  differ- 
ent light  to  many  who  now  so  fondly  admired' and  so  rev 
trusted  lum.  When  that  time  arrived,  lie.  Mr.  Vigors,  might  again 
be  of  use;  but,  mean  while,  though  he  declined  to  renew  his  inti- 
macy at  Abbots'  House,  or  to  pay  unavailing  visits  of  mere 
niony,  Ids  interest  in  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend  remained  undi- 
minished, nay,  was  rather  increased  by  compassion;  that  he  should 
silently  keep  his  eye  upon  her j  and  whenever  any  thing  to  her 
advantage  suggested  itself  to  him,  lie  should  not  he  deterred  by 
the  slight  with  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh  .had  treated  his  judgment  from 
calling  on  her,  and  placing  before  her  conscience  as  a  mother  his 
ideas  for  her  child's  benefit,  leaving  to  herself  then,  as  now,  the 
entire  responsibility  of  rejecting  tin-  advice  which  he  might  say, 
without  vanity,  was  deemed  of  some  value  by  those  who  could 
distinguish  between  sterling  qualities  and  specious  preten< 

Mrs.  Ashleigh's  was  that  thoroughly  womanly  nature  which 
instinctively  leans  upon  others.  She  was  diffident,  trustful,  meek, 
affectionate.  Not  quite*  justly  twid  Mrs.  Poyntz  described  her  as 
"commonplace  and  weak,"  for  though  she  might  he  called  weak,  it 
Wag  not  because  ahfl  was  commonplace;  she  had  a  goodness  of 
heart,  a  sweetness  of  disposition,  to  which  that  disparaging  defini- 
tion could  not  apply.  She  could  only  be  called  commonplace,  in- 
asmuch as  in  fcbe  ordinary  daily  affairs  of  life  she  had  a  great  deal 
irdinary  daily  commonplace  good  sense.  Give  her  a  routine  to 
follow,  and  no  routine  could  he  better  adhered  to.  In  the  allotted 
sphere  of  a  woman's  duties  she  never  seemed  at  fault.  No  house- 
hold, not  even  Mrs.  1'oyntz's,  was  more  happily  managed.  The 
old  Abbots'  House  had  merged  its  original  antique  gloom  in  the 
■  character  of  pleasing  repose.  All  her  servants  adored  Mrs. 
Ashleigh;  all  found  ita  pleasure  to  please  her;  her  establishment 
had  the  harmony  of  clock-work;  comfort  diffused  itself  round  her 
like  quiet  sunshine  round  a  sheltered  spot  To  gaze  on  her  pleas- 
ing countenance,  to  listen  to  the  simple  talk  that  lapsed  from  her 
guileless  lips  in  even,  slow,  and  lulling  murmur,  was  in  itself  a 
respite  from  "eating  cares."  She  was  to  the  mind  what  the  color 
.ecu  is  to  the  eye.  She  had.  therefore,  excellent  sense  in  all 
that  relates  to  everyday  life.  There,  she  needed  not  to  consult 
another;  there,  the  wisest  might  have  consulted  her  with  profit. 
J'.ut  the  moment  any  thing,  however  in  itself  trivial,  jarred  on  the 
routine  to  which  her  mind  had  grown  wedded;  the  moment  an  in- 
cident hurried  her  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  woman's  daily  life, 
then  her  confidence  forsook  Iter ;  then  she  needed  a  confidant,  an 
adviser,  and  by  that  confidant  or  adviser  she  could  he  credulously 
lured  or  submissively  controlled.  Therefore,  when  she  lost,  in 
Mr.  Vigors,  the  guide  she  had  been  accustomed  to  consult  when- 
ever she  needed  guidance,  she  turned  helplessly  and  piteously,  first 


56  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

to  Mrs.  Poyntz,  and  then  yet  more  imploringly  to  me,  because  a 
woman  of  that  character  is  never  quite  satisfied  without  the  advice 
of  a  man.  And  where  an  intimacy  more  familiar  than  that  of  his 
formal  visits  is  once  established  with  a  physician,  confidence  in 
him  grows  fearless  and  rapid,  as  the  natural  result  of  sympathy 
concentrated  on  an  object  of  anxiety  in  common  between  himself 
and  the  home  which  opens  its  sacred  recess  to  his  observant  but 
tender  eye.  Thus  Mrs.  Ashleigh  had  shown  me  Mr.  Vigors'  letter, 
and  forgetting  that  I  might  not  be  as  amiable  as  herself,  besought 
me  to  counsel  her  how  to  conciliate  and  soften  her  lost  husband's 
friend  and  connection.  That  character  clothed  him  with  dignity 
and  awe  in  her  soft,  forgiving  eyes.  So,  smothering  my  own  re- 
sentment, less. perhaps  at  the  tone  of  offensive  insinuation  against 
myself  than  at  the  arrogance  with  which  this  prejudiced  inter- 
meddler  implied  to  a  mother  the  necessity  of  his  guardian  watch 
over  a  child  under  her  own  care,  I  sketched  a  reply  which  seemed 
to  me  both  dignified  and  placatory,  abstaining  from  all  discussion, 
and  conveying  the  assurance  that  Mrs.  Ashleigh  would  be  a(  all 
times  glad  to  hear,  and  disposed  to  respect,  whatever  suggestion 
so  esteemed  a  friend  of  her  husband's  would  kindly  submit  to  her 
for  the  welfare  of  her  daughter. 

There  all  communication  had  slopped  for  about,  a  month  since 
the  date  of  my  reintroduction  to  Abbots'  House.  One  afternoon  1 
unexpectedly  met  Mr.  Vigors  at  the  entrance  of  the  blind  lane,  1 
on  my  way  to  Abbots'  House;,  ami  my  first  glance  at  his  face  told 
me  that  he  was  coming  from  it,  for  the  expression  of  that  face  was 
more  than  usually  sinister;  the  sullen  scowl  was  lit  into  significant 
menace  by  a  sneer  of  unmistakable  triumph.  I  felt  at  once  that 
he  had  succeeded  in  some  machination  against  me,  and  with 
ominous  misgiving  quickened  my  steps. 

I  found  Mrs.  Ashleigh  seated  alone  in  front  of  the  house,  under 
a  large  cedar-tree  that  formed  a  natural  arbor  in  the  center  of  the 
sunny  lawn.  She  was  perceptibly  embarrassed  as  I  took  my  seal 
beside  her. 

"  I  hope,"  said  I,  forcing  a  smile,  "  that  Mr.  Vigors  has  not  been 
telling  you  that  I  shall  kill  my  patient,  or  that  she  looks  much 
worse  than  she  did  under  Dr.  Jones'  care  1  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  He  owned  cheerfully  that  Lilian  was  grown 
quite  strong,  and  said,  without  any  displeasure,  that  he  had  heard 
how  gay  she  had  been ;  riding  out  and  even  dancing — which  is 
very  kind  in  him — for  he  disapproves  dancing,  on  principle." 

"  But  still,  I  can  see  he  has  said  something  to  vex  or  annoy 
you;  and,  to  judge  by'  his  countenance  when  I  met  him  in  the 
lane,  I  should  conjecture  that  that  something  was  intended  to 
lower  the  confidence  you  so  kindly  repbse  in  me." 

"  I  assure  you  not;  he  did  not  mention  your  name,  either  to  me 
or  to  Lilian.     I  never  knew  him   more    friendly  ;    quite  like  old 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  57 

times.     He  is  a  good  man  at  heart,  very ;    and  was  mneh  attached 
to  my  poor  husband." 

'•  Did  Mr.  Ashleigh  profess  a  very  high  opinion  of  Mr.  Vigo 
"  Well)  I  don't  quite  know  that,  because  my  dear  Gilbert  never 
spoke  tome much  about  him.    Gilbert  was  naturally  very  silent. 
But  he  shrank    from    all    trouble — all    worldly   affairs — and  Mr. 
Vigors  managed  bis  estate,  and  inspected  his  steward's  hooks,  and 
protected  him  through  a  long  lawsuit  which  he  had  inherited 
his  father.     It  killed  his  father.     I    don't   know  what  we  should 
have  done  without  Mr.  Vigors,  and  I  am  so  glad  he  has  forgiven 
me." 
"  Hem  !     Where  is  Miss  Ashleigh  I     In-doors  .'" 
"No:  somewhere  in   the  grounds.     Hut  my  dear  Dr.  Fenwick. 
>1  leave  me  yet  ;  you  arc  so  very,  very  kind  ;    and  somehow  1 
•  grown  to  look  on  you  quite  as  an  old  friend.     Something  has 
happened  which  has  put  me  out — quite  put  me  out." 

She  said  this  wearily  and  feebly,  closing  her  eyes  as  if  she  were 
indeed  put  our  in  the  sense  of  extinguished. 

" 'the  feeling  of  friendship  you  express,"  said  I,  with  earnest- 
ness, ••  is  reciprocal.  On  my  side  it  is  accompanied  with  a  peculiar 
gratitude.  I  am  a  lonely  man,  by  a  lonely  fireside — no  parents, 
no  near  kindred,  ajul  in  this  town,  since  Dr.  Faher  left  it,  no  cor- 
dial intimacy  till  I  knew  you.  In  admitting  me  so  familiarly  to 
your  hearth,  you  have  given  me  what  I  have  never  known  I 
since  1  came  to  man's  estate:  a  glimpse  of  the  happy  domestic 
life  ;  the  charm  and  relief  to  eye.  heart,  and  spirit,  which  is  never 
known  hut  in  households  cheered  by  the  face  of  woman  :  thus  my 
sentiment  for  you  and  yours  is  indeed  that  of  an  old  friend  ;  anil 
in  any  private  confidence  you  show  me,  1  feel  as  if  I  were  no 
longer  a  lonely  man,  without  kindred,  without  home." 

Mrs.  Ashleigh   seemed   much   moved  by  these  words,  which   my 
heart  had  forced  from  my  lips,  an.  ylying  to  me  with  simple 

unaffected  warmth   of  kindness,  she  rose,  ionic   my  arm,  and  con- 
tinued thus  as  we  walked  slowly  to  and  tro  the  lawn  : 

"  You  know,  perhaps,  that  my  poor  husband  left  a  sister,  now  a 
widow  as  myself,  Lady  Haughton." 

'■  1  remember  that  Mrs.  Poyntz  said  you  had  such  a  sister,  but  1 
never  heard  you  mention  Lady  Haughton  till  now.     Well  !" 

"Well.  Mr.  Vigors  has  brought  me  a  letter  from  her,  and  it  is 
that  which  has  put  me  out.  I  dare  say  you  have  not  heard  me 
speak  before  of  Lady  Haughton,  for  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  had 
almost  forgotten  her  existence.  She  is  many  years  older  than  my 
husband  was:  of  a  very  different  character.  Only  Came  once  to 
see  him  after  our  marriage.  Hurt  me  by  ridiculing  him  as  a  hook- 
worm. (  MVended  him  by  looking  a  little  down  on  me,  as  a  nobody 
Without  spiril  and  fashion,  which  was  quite  true.  And,  except  In 
a  cold  and  unfeeling  letter  of  formal  condolence  after  i 
dear  Gilbert,  I   never  heard  from  her  since  I   have  been  a  widow 


58  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

0 

till  to-day.  But,  after  all,  she  is  my  poor  husband's  sister,  and 
his  elder  sister,  and  Lilian's  aunt. ;  and,  as  Mr.  Vigors  says,  '  Duty 
is  duty.' " 

Had  Mrs.  Ashleigh  said  "  Duty  is  torture,"  she  could  not  have 
uttered  the  maxim  with  more  mournful  and  despondent  a  re- 
signation. 

"  And  what  does  this  lady  require  of  you,  which  Mr.  Vigors 
deems  it  your  duty  to  comply  with  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  what  penetration  !  You  have  guessed  the  exact 
truth.  But  I  think  you  will  agree  with  Mr.  Vigors.  Certainly  I 
have  no  option  ;  yes,  I  must  do  it." 

"  My  penetration  is  in  fault  now.    Do  what  1      Pray  explain  '?" 

"  Poor  Lady  Haughton,  six  months  ago,  lost  her  only  son,  Sir 
James.  Mr.  Vigors  says  he  was  a  very  tine  young  man,  of  whom 
any  mother  would  have  been  proud  ;  I  had  heard  he  was  wild. 
Mr.  Vigors  says,  however,  that  he  was  just  going  to  reform, 
and  marry  a  young  lady  whom  his  mother  chose  for  him,  when, 
unluckily,  he  would  ride  a  steeple-chase,  not  being  quite  sober  at 
the  time,  and  broke  his  neck,  Lady  Haughton  has  been,  of  course, 
in  great  grief.  She  has  retired  to  Brighton  ;  and  she  wrote  to  me 
from  thence,  and  Mr.  Vigors  brought  the  letter.  He  will  go  back 
to  her  to-day." 

"  Will  go  hack  to  Lady  Haughton  \  What!  has  he  been  to  her? 
Is  he,  then,  as  intimate  with  Lady  Haughton  as  he  was  with  her 
brother?" 

"  No  ;  but  there  has  been  a  long  and  constant  correspondence. 
She  had  a  settlement  on  the  Kirby  estate — a  sum  which  was  not 
paid  off  during  Gilbert's  life  ;  and  a  very  small  part  of  the  property 
went  to  Sir  James,  which  part  Mr.  Ashleigh  Sumner,  the  heir-at- 
law  to  the  rest  of  the  estate,  wished  .Mr.  Vigors,  as  his  guardian, 
to  buy  during  his  minority,  and  as  it  was  mixed  up  with  Lady 
Haughton's  settlement,  her  consent  was  necessary  as  well  as  Sir 
James'.  So  there  was  much  negotiation,  and,  since  then,  Ash- 
leigh Sumner  has  come  into  the  Haughton  properly,  on  poor  Sir 
James'  decease;  so,  that  complicated  all  affairs  between  Mr. 
Vigors  and  Lady  Haughton,  and  he  has  just  been  to  Brighton  to 
see  her.  And  poor  Lady  Haughton,  in  short,  wants  me  and  Lilian 
to  come  and  visit  her.  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  But  you  said  the 
other  day  you  thought  sea  air  might  be  good  for  Lilian  during  the 
heat  of  the  summer,  and  she  seems  well  enough  now  for  the  change. 
What  do  you  think  ?" 

"  She  is  well  enough,  certainly.  But  Brighton  is  not  the  place 
I  would  recommend  for  the  summer;  it  wants  shade,  and  is  much 
hotter  than  L ." 

"  Yes,  but  unluckily  Lady  Haughton  foresaw  that  objection,  and 
she  has  a  jointure-house  some  miles  from  Brighton,  and  near  the 
sea.  She  says  the  grounds  are  well  wooded,  and  the  place  is  pro- 
verbially cool  and  healthy,  not  far  from  St.  Leonard's  Forest.     And, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  59 

in  short,  I  have  written  to  say  we  will  come.  So  we  must,  unless, 
indeed,  yon  positively  forbid  it." 

•'  When  do  you  think  of  going?" 

"Next  Monday.  Mr.  Vigors  would  have  me  fix  Hie  day.  If 
you  knew  how  I  dislike  moving  when  I  am  once  settled  ;  and  I  do 
so  dread  Lady  Haughton,  she  is  so  fine  and.  so  satirical.  But  Mr. 
Vigori  says  she  is  very  much  altered,  poor  thing!  1  should  like 
to  show  you  her  letter,  but  I  had  just  sent  it  to  Margaret — Mrs. 
Poyntaz — a  minute  or  two  before  you  came.  She  knows  something 
of  Lady  Haughton.  Margaret  knows  everybody.  And  we  shall 
have  to  go  in  mourning  for  poor  Sir  James,  I  suppose  ;  and  Mar- 
garet will  choose  il.  for  I  am  sure  1  ean't  guess  to  what  extent  we 
should  he  supposed  to  mourn.  1  ought  to  have  gone  in  mourning 
before — poor  Gilbert's  nephew — hut  I  am  so  stupid,  and  1  had 
never  seen  him.  And — hut  oh,  this  w  kind  !  Margaret  herself — 
my  deal-  Margaret  !"• 

We  had  just  turned  away  from  the  house,  in  our  up  and  down 
walk  ;  and  Mrs.  Poyntz  stood  immediately  fronting  us. 

".So  Anne,  you  have  actually  accepted  this  invitation — and  for 
Monday  next .'" 

"  Yes.     Did  I  do  wrong  ?" 

"  What  does  Dr.  Femvick  say  ?     Can  Lilian  go  with  safety  ?" 

I  could  not  honestly  say  she  might  not  go  with  safety  ;  hut'  my 
heart  sank  like  lead  as  1  answered  : 

"  Miss  Ashleigh  does  not,  now  need  merely  medical  care;  hut 
more  than  half  her  cure  has  depended  on  keeping  her  spirits  free 
from  depression.  She  may  miss  the  cheerful  companionship  of 
your  own  daughter,  and  other  young  ladies  of  her  own  age;  a  very 
nielaftcholy  house,  saddened  by  a  recent  bereavement,  without 
other  guests  ;  ti\  hostess  to  whom  she  is  a  stranger,  and  whom  Mrs. 
Ashleigh  herself  appears  to  deem  formidable.  Certainly  these  do  not 
make  that  change  of  scene  which  a  physician  would  recommend. 
When  1  spoke  of  sea  air  being  good  for  .Miss  Ashleigh,  I  thought 
of  our  own  northern  coasts,  at  a  later  time  of  the  year,  when  I 
could  escape  myself  for  a  few  weeks  and  attend  iter.  The  journey, 
too,  would  be  shorter  and  less  fatiguing;  the  air  more  invigo- 
rating." 

"  No  doubt  that  would  be  belter,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  dryly  ; 
"but  so  far  as  your  objections  to  visiting  Lady  Haughton  have 
been  stated,  they  are  groundless.  Her  house  will  not  be  melan- 
choly ;  she  will  have  other  guests,  and  Lilian  will  find  other  com- 
panions young  like  herself — young  ladies  and  young  gentlemen, 
tool" 

There  was  something  ominous,  something  compassionate,  in  the 
look  which  .Mrs.  Poyntz  cast  upon  me,  in  concluding  her  speech, 
which  in  itself  was  calculated  to  rouse  the  fears  of  a  lover.  Lilian 
away  from  me,  in  the  house  of  a  worldly  fine  lady — such  as  1 
judged  Lady  Haughton  to   be — surrounded    by  young  gentlemen, 


60  A    STKANGE    STORY. 

as  well  as  young  ladies,  by  admirers,  no  doubt,  of  a  higher  rank 
and  more  brilliant  fashion  than  she  had  yet  known  !  I  closed  my 
eyes,  and  with  a  strong  effort  suppressed  a  groan. 

"  My  dear  Anne,  let  me  satisfy  myself  that  Dr.  Fenwick  really 
does  consent  to  this  journey.  He  will  say  to  me  what  he  may  not 
to  you.  Pardon  me,  then,  if  I  take  him  aside  for  a  few  minutes. 
Let  me  find  you  here  again  under  this  cedar-tree." 

Placing  her  arm  in  mine,  and  without  waiting  for  Mrs.  Ashleigh's 
answer,  Mrs.  Poyutz  drew  me  into  the  more  sequestered  Walk  that 
belted  the  lawn ;  and,  when  we  were  out  of  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  sight 
and  hearing,  said : 

'  From  what  you  have  now  seen  of  Lilian  Ashleigh,  do  you  still 
desire  to  gain  her  as  your  wife  ]  " 

"  Still  1  Oil !  with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  the  fear  with 
which  I  now  dread  that  she  is  about  to  pass  away  from  my  eyes — 
from  my  life !  " 

"  Does  your  judgment  confirm  the  choice  of  your  heart  1  Ke- 
flect  before  you  answer." 

"  Such  selfish  judgment  as  1  had  before  I  knew  her  would  not 
confirm,  but  oppose  it.  The  nobler  judgment  that  now  expands 
all  my  reasonings,  approves  and  seconds  my  heart.  No,  no;  do 
not  smile  so  sarcastically.  This  is  not  the  voice  of  a  blind  and 
egotistical  passion.  Let  me  explain  myself  if  I  can.  I  concede, 
to  you  that  Lilian's  character  is  undeveloped.  I  concede  to  you 
that,  amidst  the  childlike  freshness  and  innocence  of  her  nature, 
there  is  at  times  a  strangeness,  a  mystery,  which  I  have  not  yet 
traced  to  its  cause.  But  I  am  certain  that  the  intellect  is  organi- 
cally as  sound  as  the  heart,  and  that  intellect  and  heart  will  ulti- 
mately— if  under  happy  auspices — blend  in  that  felicitous  union 
which  constitutes  the  perfection  of  woman.  But  it  is  Itecaus 
does,  and  may  for  years,  may  perhaps  always,  need  a  more  devoted, 
thoughtful  care  than  natures  less  tremulously  sensitive,  that  my 
judgment  sanctions  my  choice  ;  for  whatever  is  best  for  her  is  best 
for  me.     And  who  would  watch  over  her  as  I  should  I  " 

"You  have  never  yet  spoken  to  Lilian  as  lovers  speak  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed." 

"And,  nevertheless,  you  believe  that  your  affection  would  not  be 
unreturned  1 " 

"  I  thought  so  once — I  doubt  now — yet,  in  doubting,  hope.  But 
why  do  you  alarm  me  with  these  questions  I  You,  too,  forebode 
that  in  this  visit  I  may  lose  her  forever  ?  " 

"  If  you  fear  that,  tell  her  so,  and  perhaps  her  answer  may  dispel 
your  fear  1  " 

"What,  now — already,  when  she  has  scarcely  known  me  a  month ! 
Might  I  not  risk  all  if  too  premature  I  " 

<l  There  is  no  almanac  for  love.  With  many  women  love  is  born 
the  moment  they  know  they  are  beloved.  All  wisdom  tells  us  that 
a  moment  once  gone  is  irrevocable.     Were  I  in  your  place  I  should 


A    BTRANGB    STORY.  I  1 

feel  that  I  approached  a  moment  that  I  must  not  lose.     1  have 
said  enough;  now  I  shall  rejoin  Mrs.  Ashleigh." 

"  Stay — tell  me  firsl  what  Lady  Ilaughton's  letter  really  con- 
tained to  prompt  the  advice  with  whioh  yon  so  transport,  and  yet 
so  daunt  me,  when  you  proffer  it." 

"Notnow — later,  perhaps — not  now.     If  you  wish  to  see  Lilian 
alone,  she  is  by  the  old  Monk's  Well  ;   I  saw  her  seated  there  . 
came  that  way  to  the  house." 

"One  word  more — only  one.  Answer  this  question  frankly,  for 
it  is  one  of  honor.  Do  you  still  believe  now  that  my  suit  to  her 
daughter  would  not  be  disapproved  by  Mrs.  Ashleigb  .' " 

"  At  this  moment  L  am  sure  it  would  not :  a  week  hcnc|  I  might 
not  give  you  the  same  answer," 

80  she  passed  on,  with  her  quick  hut  measured  tread,  back 
through  the  shady  Walk  on  to  to  the  open  lawn,  till  the  last  glimpse 
of  her  pale  gray  robe  disappeared  under  the  boughs  of  the  cedar- 
Then,  with  a  start,  I  broke  the  irresolute,  tremulous  suspense 
in  winch  I  had  vainly  endeavored  to  analyze  my  own  mind,  solve 
my  own  doubts,  concentrate  my  own  will,  and  went  the  opposite 
way  skirting  the  circle  of  that  haunted  ground  ;  as  now.  on  one 
side,  its  lofty  terrace,  the  houses  of  the  neighboring  city  came  full 
and  close  into  view,  divided  from  my  fairy-land  of  life  but  by  the 
trodden  murmurous  thoroughfare  winding  low  beneath  the  ivied 
parapets;  and  as  now,  again,  the  world  of  men  abrubtly  vanished 
behmd  the  screening  foliage  of  luxuriant  June. 

At  last  the  enchanted  glade  opened  out  from  the  verdure,  its 
borders  fragrant  with  syringa,  and  rose,  and  and  there, 

by  the  gray  memorial  of  the  gon<  age,  my  eyes  seem 

close  their  unquiet  wanderings,  resting  spell-bound  on  that  in 
which   had  become  to  me  the  incarnation   of  earth's  bloom  ami 
youth. 

Sne  stood  amidst  the    Last,   backed   by    the  fragments  of  v 
which  man  had  raised  to  seclude  him  from  human  passion,  locking 
under  those  lids  so  downcast  the   secret  of    the   only  knowledge  1 
asked  from  the  boundless  Future. 

Ah,  what  mockery  there  is  in  that  grand  word,  the  world's' 
•  war-cry,  Freedom  1  Who  has  not  known  one  period  of  lite, 
and  that  so  solemn  that  its  shadows  may  rest  over  all  life  hereafter, 
when  one  human  creature  has  over  him  a  sovereignty  more  supreme 
and  absolute  than  Orient  servitude  adores  in  the  symbols  of  diadfl  n 
and  sceptre  I  What  crest  so  haughty  that  has  not  bowed  before  a 
hand  which  could  exalt  or  humble  !  What  heart  so  dauntless  that 
has  not  trembled  to  call  forth  the  voice  at  whose  sound  ope  the 
gates  of  rapture  or  despair  1  That  life  alone  is  free  which  rules 
and  suffices  for  itself.     That  life  we  forfeit  when  we  love  ! 


62  A    STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


How  did  I  utter  it?  By  what  words  did  my  heart  make  itself 
known1?  I  remember  not.  All  was  a  dream  that  falls  upon  a 
restless,  feverish  night,  and  fades  away  as  the  eyes  unclose  on  the 
peace  of  a  cloudless  heaven,  on  the  bliss  of  a  golden  sun.  A  new 
morrow  seemed  indeed  upon  the  earth  when  I  awoke  from  a  life- 
long yesterday,  her  dear  hand  in  mine,  her  sweet  face  bowed  upon 
my  breast. 

And  then  there  was  that  melodious  silence  in  which  there  is  no 
sound  audible,  from  without;  yel  within  us  there  is  heard  a  lulling 
celestial  music,  as  if  our  whole  being,  grown  harmonious  with 
the  universe,  joined  from  its  happy  deeps  in  the  hymn  that  unites 
the  stars. 

In  that  silence  our  two  heart  ^seemed  to  make  each  other  un- 
derstood, to  be  growing  near  and  nearer,  blending  by  mysterious 
concord  into  the  complete  iness  of  a  solemn  union,  never  hence- 
forth to  be  rent  asunder. 

At  length  I  said  softly  :  "  And  it  was  here,  on  ibis  spot,  that  I 
first  saw  you — here  thai  1  for  the  first  time  knew  what  power  to 
change  our  world  and  to  rule  our  future  goes  forth  from  the  charm 
of  a  human  face  !  " 

And  Lilian  asked  me  timidly,  and  without  lifting  her  eyes,  how 
I  had  so  seen  her,  reminding  me  that  I  promised  to  tell  her,  and 
had  never  yet  done  so. 

And  then  I  told  her  of  the  strange  impulse  thai  had  led  me 
into  the  grounds,  and  by  what  chance  my  steps  had  been  diverted 
down  the  path  that  wound  to  the  glade;  how  suddenly  her  form 
had  shone  upon  my  eyes,  gathering  around  itself  the  v<>*f  hues  of 
the  setting  sun  ;    and  how   wistfully;;  m   had  followed  her 

own  silent  gaze  into  the  distant  heaven. 

As  I  spoke  her  hand  pressed  mine  eagerly,  convulsively,  and, 
raising  her  face  from  my  breast,  she  looked  at  me  with  an  intent, 
anxious  earnestness.  That  look! — twice  before  it  had  thrilled 
and  perplexed  me. 

"  What  is  there  in  that  look,  oh,  my  Lilian,  which  tells  me  that 
there  is  something  that  startles  you — something  you  wish  to  con- 
fide, and  yet  shrink  from  explaining  ?     See   how,  already,  I  study 
the  fair  book  from  which  the  seal  has  been  lifted,  but  as  yel 
must  aid  me  to  construe  its  language.'' 

r  If  I  shrink  from  explaining,  it  is  only  because  I  fear  that  I 
cannot  explain  so  as  to  be  understood  or  believed.  But  yon  have 
a  right  to  know  the  secrets  of  a  life  which  you  would  link  to  your 
own.    Turn  your  face  aside  from  me;  a  reproving  look,  an  incred- 


A    STKANUE    STORY.  63 

ulous  smile,  chill — oh  ! — you  cannot  guess  how  they  chill  me — 
when  I  would  approach  that  which  to  me  is  so  serious  and  so 
solemnly  strange.*' 

I  turned  my  face  aside,  and  her  voice  grew  firmer  as,  after  a 
brief"  pause,  she  resumed  : 

4i  As  far  back  as  1  can  remember  in  my  infancy,  there  have 
been  moments  when  there  seems  to  fall  a  soft,  hazy  veil  between 
my  sight  and  the  things  around  it,  thickening  and  deepening  till 
it  has  the  likeness  of  one  of  those  white  fleecy  clouds  which  gather 
on  the  verge  of  the  horizon  when  the  air  is  yet  still,  but  the  winds 
are  about  to  rise,  and  then  1  his  vapor  or  veil  will  suddenly  open, 
as  clouds  open,  and  let  in  the  blue  sky." 

"Go  on,'*  1  said  gently,  for  here  she  came  to  a  stop. 

She  continued,  speaking  somewhat  more  hurriedly. 

"Then,  in  that  opening,  strange  appearances  present  themselves 
1o  me,  as  in  a  vision.  In  my  childhood  these  were  chiefly  land- 
scapes of  wonderful  beauty.  1  could  but  faintly  describe  them 
then  ;  1  could  not  attempt  to  describe  them  now,  for  they  are  al- 
most gone  from  my  memory.  My  dear  mother  chid  me  for  telling 
her  what  I  saw.  so  I  did  not  impress  ii  on  my  mind  by  repeating 
it.  As  I  grew  up,  this  kind  of  vision — if  1  may  sit  call  it — be- 
came much  less  frequent  or  much  less  distinct  ;  1  still  saw  the 
sofl  veil  fall,  the  pale  cloud  form  and  open,  but  often  what  may 
then  have  appeared  was  entirely  forgotten  when  I  recovered  my- 
self, waking  «*;  from  a  sleep.  Sometimes,  however,  the  recollec- 
tion would  he  vivid  and  complete;  sometimes  1  saw  the  fai 
my  lost,  father  ;  sometimes  1  heard  his  very  voice,  as  1  had  seen 
and  heard  him  in  my  early  childhood,  when  he  would  let  me  rest 
for  hours  beside  him  as  he  mused  or  studied,  happy  to  be  so  quietly 
near  him — for  1  loved  him,  oh,  so  dearly!  and  I  remember  him  so 
distinctly,  though  I  was  only  in  my  sixth  year  when  he  died. 
"Much  more  recently,  indeed,  within  the  last  few  months — the 
images  of  things  to  come  are  reflected  on  the  space  that  I  gaze 
into  as  clearly  as  in  a  glass.  Thus,  for  weeks  before  I  came 
hither,  or  knew  that  such  a  place  existed,  1  saw  distinctly  the  old 
House,  yon  trees,  this  sward,  this  moss-grown  Gothic  fount,  and, 
with  the  sight,  an  impression  was  conveyed  to  me  that  in  the  scene 
before  me  my  old  childlike  life  would  pass  into  some  solemn 
change.  So  that  when  I  came  here,  and  recognized  the  picture 
in  my  vision,  1  took  an  affection  for  the  spot;  an  affection  not 
without' awe ;  a  powerful,  perplexing  interest,  as  one  who  feeds 
under  the  influence  of  a  fate  of  which  a  prophetic  glimpse  has 
been  vouchsafed.  And  in  that  evening  when  you  fkst  saw  me, 
seated  here — " 

"  Yes,  Lilian,  on  that  evening — ?" 

"  I  saw  you  also,  but  in  my  vision — yonder,  far  in  the  deeps  of 
space — and — and  my  heart  was  stirred  as  it  had  never  been  before; 
ami  near  where  your  image  grew  out  from  the  cloud  I  saw  my 


64  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

father's  face,  and  I  beard  his  voice,  not  in  my  ear,  but  as  in  my 
heart  whispering — " 

"  Yes,  Lilian,  whispering — what  1" 

••  These  words — only  these — '  Ye  will  need  one  another.'  But 
then,  suddenly,  between  my  upward  eyes  and  the  two  forms  they 
had  beheld,  there  rose  from  the  earth,  obscuring  the  skies,  a  vague 
dusky  vapor,  undulous,  and  coiling  like  a  vast  serpent,  nothing, 
indeed,  of  its  shape  and  figure  definite,  but  of  its  face  one  abrupt 
glare — a  flash  from  two  dread  luminous  eyes,  and  a  young  bead, 
like  the  Medusa's,  changing  more  rapidly  than  I  could  have  drawn 
breath  into  a  grinning  skull.  Then  my  terror  made  me  bow  my 
head,  and  when  I  raised  it  again  all  that  I  had  seen  was  vanished. 
But  the  terror  still  remained,  even  when  I  felt  my  mother's  arm 
round  me  and  heard  her  voiee.  And  then,  when  I  entered  the 
bouse  and  sat  down  again  alone,  the  recollection  of  what  I  had 
seen — those  eyes — that  face — that  skull — grew  on  me  stronger 
and  stronger  till  I  fainted,  and  remember  no  more  until  my  eyes, 
opening,  saw  you  by  ray  side,  and  in  my  wonder  there  was  not 
terror  ;  no,  a  sense  of  joy,  protection,  hope,  yet  still  shadowed  by 
a  kind  of  tear  or  awe,  in  recognizing  the  countenance  which  had 
gleamed  on  me  from  the  skies  before  the  dark  vapor  had  risen,  and 
while  my  father's  voice  had  murmured,  '  Ye  will  need  one  an- 
other.' And  now — and  now — will  you  love  n:e  less  that  you  know 
a  secret  in  my  being  which  1  have  told  to  no  other — cannot  con- 
strue to  myself? — only — only,  at  least,  do  not  mock  me — do  not 
disbelieve  me.  Nay,  turn  from  me  no  longer  now :  now  I  ask  to 
meet  your  eyes.  Now,  before  our  bands  can  join  again,  tell  me 
thai  you  do  hot  despise  me  a*  untruthful,  do  not  pity  me  as  insane."! 

"  Hush — hush  !  "  I  said,  drawing  her  to  my  breast,  "  Of  all 
you  tell  me,  we  will  talk  hereafter.  The  scales  of  our  science  have 
no  weights  fine  enough  for  the  gossamer  threads  of  a  maiden's  pure 
fancies.  Enough  for  me — for  us  both — if  out  from  all  such  illu- 
sions start  one  truth  told  to  yon,  lovely  child,  from  the  heavens; 
told  to  me,  ruder  man,  on  the  earth — repeated  by  each  pulse  of 
this  heart  that  woos  you  to  hear  and  to  trust;  now  and  henceforth, 
through  life  unto  death — 'Each  has  need  of  the  other' — 1  of  you — 
I  of  you  !  my  Lilian  ! — my  Lilian  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

* 
In  spite  of  the  previous  assurance  of  Mrs.  Poyntz,  it  was  not 
without  an  uneasy  apprehension  that  1  approached  the  cedar-tree, 
under  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh  still  sat,  her  friend  beside  her.  I 
looked  on  the  fair  creature  whose  arm  was  linked  in  mine.  So 
young,  so   singularly  lovely,  and  with  all  the  gitts  of  birth  aud 


A    8TRANQB    STOHY.  65 

fortune  which  bend  avarice  and  ambition  the  more  submissively 
to  youth  and  beauty,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  wronged  what  a  parent 
might  justly  deem  her  natural  lot.     , 

••  i  ih,  if  your  mother  should  disapprove,"  said,  I  falterinj 

Lilian  leaned  on  my  arm  less  lightly.  "If  I  had  though!  so," 
she  said,  with  her  soft  blush,  "  should  I  be  thus  by  your  side  ?" 

So  we  passed  under  the  boughs  of  the  dark  tree,  and  Lilian  left 
me,  and  kissed  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  cheek,  then  seating  herself  on  the 
turf,  laid  her  lead  quietly  on  her  mother's  lap.  I  looked  on  the 
Queen  of  the  Hill,  whose  keen  eye  shot  over  me.  I  thought 
there  was  a  momentary  expression  of  pain  or  displeasure,  on  her 
countenance  ;  but  it  passed.  Still  there  seemed  to  me  something 
of  irony,  as  well  as  of  triumph  or  congratulation,  in  the  half  smile 
with  which  she  quitted  her  seat,  and  in  the  tone  with  which  she 
whispered,  as  she  glided  by  me  to  the  open  sward,  "  So  then,  it  is 
settled." 

She  walked  lightly  and  quickly  down  the  lawn.  When  she  was 
out  of  sight,  I  breathed  more  -freely.  I  took  the  seat  which  she 
had  quitted,  by  Mrs.  Ash  eigh's  side,  and  said,  "A  little  while 
ago,  1  spoke  of  myself  as  a  man  without  kindred,  without  borne, 
and  now  I  come  to  you  and  ask  for  both." 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  looked  at  me  benignly,  then  raised  her  daughter's 
face  from  her  lap,  and  whispered,  "  Lilian,"  and  Lilian's  lips 
moved,  but  I  did  not  hear  her  answer.  Her  mitt  her  did.  She 
took  Lilian's  hand,  simply  placed  it  in  mine,  and  said.  "As  she 
chooses,  I  choose  ;  whom  she  loves,  I  love." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


FBOM'that  evening  till  the  day  Mrs.  Ashleigh  and  Lilian  went 
on  the  dreaded  visit,  I  was  always  at  their  house  when  my  avo- 
cations allowed  me  to  steal  to  it  ;  and  during  those  few  days,  the 
happiest  J  had  ever  known,  it  seemed  to  me  that  years  could  not 
have  more  deepened  my  intimacy  with  Lilian's  exquisite  Wtttfre, 
made  me  more  reverential  of  its  purity,  or  more  enamored  of  its 
sweetness.  I  could  detect  in  her  but.  one  fault,  and  I  rebuked 
myself  for  believing  that  it  was  a  fault.  We  sec  many  who  ne- 
glect the  minor  duties  of  life,  who  lack  watchful  forethought  and 
considerate  care  for  others,  and  we  recognize  the  cause  of  this 
failing  in  levity  or  egotism.  Certainly  neither  of  those  tendencies! 
of  character  could  be  ascribed  to  Lilian.  Yet  still  in  daily  trifles 
there  was  something  of  that  neglect,  some  lack  of  that  care  and 
forethought.  She  loved  her  mother  with  fondness  and  devotion, 
yet  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  aid  in  those  petty  household  cares 
5 


66  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

in  which  her  mother  centred  so  much  of  habitual  interest.  She 
was  full  of  tenderness  and  pity  to  all  want  and  suffering,  yet 
many  a  young  lady  on  the  Hill  was  more  actively  beneficent — 
visiting  the  poor  in  their  sickness,  or  instructing  their  childrerr-  in 
the  Infant  Schools.  I  was  persuaded  that  her  love  for  me  was 
deep  and  truthful ;  it  was  clearly  void  of  all  ambition  ;  doubt- 
less she  wou'd  have  borne  unflinching  and  contented  whatever  the 
world  considers  to  be  sacrifice  and  privation — yet  I  should  never" 
have  expected  her  to  take  her  share  in  the  troubles  of  ordinary 
life.  I  could  never  have  applied  to  her  the  homely  but  significant 
name  of  helpmate.  I  reproach  myself  while  I  write  for  noticing 
such  defect— if  defect  it  were — in  what  may  be  called  the  practi- 
cal routine  of  our  positive,  trivial,  human  existence.  No  doubt  it- 
was  this  that  had  caused  Mrs.Poyntz's  harsh  judgment  against 
the  Wisdom  of  my  choice.  But  such  chiller  shade  upon  her 
charming  nature  was  reflected  from  no  inert  unamiable  self-love. 
It  was  but  the  consequence  of  that  self-absorption  which  the  habit 
.of  reverie  had  fostered.  I  cautiously  abstained  from  all  allusion 
to  those  visionary  deceptions,  which  she  had  confided  to  me,  as 
the  truthful  impressions  of  spirit  if  not  of  sense.  To  me  any 
approach  to  what  I  termed  superstition  was  displeasing  ;  any  in- 
dulgence of  phantasies  not  within  the  measured  and  beaten  tracks 
of  healthful  imagination,  more  than  displeased  me  in  her — it; 
alarmed.  I  wonld'not  by  a  word  encourage  her  in  persuasions 
which  I  felt,  it  would  be  at  present  premature  to  reason  against, 
and  erne:  indeed  to  ridicule.  1  was  convinced  that  of  themselves 
these  mists  round  her  native  intelligence,  engendered  by  a  solitary 
and  musing  childhood,  would  subside  in  the  fuller  daylight  of 
wedded  life.  She  seemed  pained  when  she  saw  how  resolutely  I 
shunned  a  subject  dear  to  her  thoughts.  She  made. one  or  two 
timid  attempts  to  renew  it,  but  my  grave  look' sufficed  to  check 
her.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  on  such  occasions  she  would  turn 
away  and  leave  me,  but  she  soon  came  back — that  gentle  heart 
could  not  bear  one  unkind  Iter  shade  between  that  and  what  it 
iined.  It  was  agreed  that  our  engagement  should  be  for  the 
present  confided  only  to  Mrs.  Poyntz.  When  Mrs.  Ashleigb  and 
Lilian  returned,  which  would  be  in  a  few  weeks  at  furthest,  it 
should  be  proclaimed;  and  our  marriage  could  take  place  in  the 
autumn,  when  I  should  be  most  free  for  one  brief  holiday  from 
professional  toils. 

So  we  parted — as  lovers  part.  I  felt  none  of  those  jealous 
fears  which,  before  we  were  affianced,  had  made  me  tremble  a;  the 
thought  of  separation,  and  had  conjured  up  irresistible  rivals. — 
But  it  was  with  a  settled  heavy  gloom  that.  I  saw  her  depart. 
From  earth  was  gone  a  glory  ;  from  life  a  ble.ss.ing. 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  67 


CHAPTER  XX. 

DURING  the  busy  years  of  my  professional  career  T  had  snatched 
leisure  for  sodre  professional  treatises,  which  had  made  more  or 
less  sensation,  and  one  of  them,  entitled  "  The  Vital  Prireiple  ; 
its  Waste  and  Supply,"  had  gained  a  wide  circulation  among  the 
general  public  This  las)  treatise  contained  the  results  of  certain 
experiments,  then  new  in  chemistry,  which  were  adduced  in  sup- 
port of  a  theory  1  entertained  as  to  the  reinvigoration  of  t lie  hu- 
man system  l>y  principles  similar  to  those  which  Liebig  has 
applied  to  the  replenishment  of  an  exhausted  soil,  namely,  the 
giving  back  to  the. frame  those  essentials  to  its  nutrition  which  it 
has  lost  by  the  action  or  accident  of  time  ;  or  supplying  that 
cial  pabulum  r  energy  in  which  the  individual  organism  is  con- 
stitutionally deficient  :  and  neutralizing  or  counterbalancing 
in  which  it  super. i  bounds' — a  theory  upon  which  some  eminent  phy- 
sicians have  more  recently  improved  with  signal  success.  Bui  mi 
these  essays,  slight  and  suggestive,  rather  than  dogmatic,  I  set  no 
value.  1  had  been  for  the  last  two  years  engaged  on  a  work  of 
much  wider  range,  endeared  to  me  by  a  far  bolder  ambition — a 
work  upon  which  I  fondly  hoped  to  found  an  enduring  repulation 
as  a  severe  and  original  physiologist.  It  was  an  "  Inquiry  into 
Organic  Life."  similar  in  comprehensiveness  of  survey  to  that  by 
which  the  illustrious  duller,  of  Berlin,  has  enriched  the  science 
of  cur  age  ;  however  inferior,  a'as,  to  that  august  combination  of 
thought  and»lean1iiig,  in  tlie  judgment  which  checks  presump- 
tion, and  the  genius  which  adorns  speculation.  But  at  that  diy  I 
was  cai  ricd  away  by  the  ardor  of  composition,  and  1  admired  my 
performance  because  I  loved  my  labor.  This  work  had  been  en- 
tirely laid  aside  for  the  last  agitated-  month.  Now  that  Lilian  was 
gone,  1  resumed  it  earnestly;  as  the  .sole  occupation  that  had 
power  and  charm  enough  to  rouse  me  from  the  aching  sense  of 
void  and  loss. 

The  very  night  of  the  day  she  went  I  reopened  my  MS.  I  had 
Lift  offal  the  commencement  of  a  chapter  "upon  Knowledge  as 
derived  from  cur  Senses-,  As  my  convictions  on  this  head  were 
founded  on  the  well-known  arguments  of  Locke  and  Oondillao 
against  innate  ideas,  and  on  the  reasonings  hy  which  Hume  had 
resolved  the  combination  of  sensations  into  a  general  idea,  to  an 
impulse  arising  merely  out  of  habit,  so  1  set  myself  to  oppose,  as 
a  dangerous  concession  to  the  sentimentalities  or  mysticism  of  ;; 
|iseudo-philosopby,  the  doctrine  favored  hy  most  of  our  receht 
physiologists,  and  of  which  some  of  the  most  eminent  of  Qeriiian 
metaphysicians  have  accepted  the  substance,  though  retining  into 


68  A    STRANGE    STORY.  / 

a  subtlety  its  positive  form — I  mean  the  doctrine  which  Muller 
himself  has  expressed  in  these  word  s : 

'(  That  innate,  ideas  may  exist,  cannot  in  the  slightest  degree  be  * 
denied  ;  ir  is,  indeed,  a  fact  All  the  ideas  or  animals,  which  are 
induced  by  instinct,  are  innate  .and  immediate.  Something  pre- 
sented to  the  mind,  a  desire  to  attain  which  is  at  the  same  time 
given.  The  new-born  lamb  and  foai  have  such  innate  ideas,  which 
lead  them  to  follow  their  mother  and  suck  the  teats.  Is  it  not  in 
some  measure  the  same  with  the  intellectual  ideas  of  man  ?"* 

To  this  question  I  answered  with  an  indignant  "no."  A 
"yes"  would  have  shaken  my  creed  of  materialism  to  the  dust. 
I  wrote  on  rapidly,  warmly.  I  defined  the  properties  and  meted 
the  limits  of  natural  laws,  which  I  would  not  admit  that  a  Deity 
himself,  could  alter.  I  clamped  and. soldered  dogma  to  dogma  in 
the  links  or  my  tinkered  logic,  till  out  from  my  page,  to  my  own 
complacent  eye,  grew  Intellectual  Man,  as  the  pure  formation  of 
his  material  senses  ;  mind,  or  what  is  called  soul,  born  from  and 
manned  by  them  alone  ;  though  to  act,  and  to  perish  with  the 
machinery  they  moved.  Strange,  that  at  the  very  time  my  love 
for  Lilian  might  have  taught  me  that  there  are  mysteries  in  the 
cure  of  the  feelings  which  my  analysis  of  ideas  could  not  solve,  I 
should  so  stubbornly  have  .opposed  as  unreal  all  that  could  be 
referred  to  the  spiritual  !  Strange,  that  at  the  very  time  when  the 
thought  that  1  might  lose  from  this  life  the  being  1  had  known 
scarce  a  month  had  just  before  so  appalled  me,  I  should  thus  com- 
placently sit  down  to  prove  that  according  1o  t lie  laws  of  the  na- 
ture which  my  passion  obeyed,  I  mms:  lose  for  eternity  the  blessing 
I  now  Imped  1  had  won  to  my  ate!  Bui  iiow  distinctly  dissimilar 
is  man  in  his  conduct  in  ;.i  ni:  n  in  his  systems!  See  the  poet 
reclined  under  forest-bo1  uiis,  iSbuning  odes  to  his  mistress  ;  follow 
him  out  into  the  world  ;  no  mistress  ever  lived  fur  him  there  !  t 
See  the  hard  man  of  science/feo  austere  in  his  passionless  prob- 
lems ;  follow  him  now  where'the  brain  rests  from  its  toil,  where 
the  heart  finds  its  Sabbath — what'child  is  so  tender,  so  vielding 
and  soft  ? 

But  I  had  proved  to  my  own  satisfaction  that  poet  and  sage  are 
dust,  and  no  more,  when  the  pulse-ceases  to  beat.  And  at  that 
consolatory  conclusion  my  pen  stopped. 

Suddenly  beside  me  I  distinctly  heard  a  sigh — a  compassionate, 
mournful  sigh.  The  sound  was  unmistakable.  I  started  from 
my  seat ;  looked  round,  amazed  to  discover  no  one — no  living 
thing  !  The  windows  were  closed,  the  night  was  still.  That  sigh 
was  not  the  wail  of  the  wind.     But  there,  in  the  darker  angle  of 

*  Midler's  Elements  of  Physiology.  Vol.  ii.  p.  134.  Translated  by  Dr. 
Baley.  -^ 

+  Cowley,  who  wrote  so  elaborate  a  series  of  amatory  poems,  is  said  "never 
to  have  been  in  love  but  once,  and  then  he  never  had  resolution  to  tell  his 
passion." — Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets:     Cowley. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  6U 

the  room,  what  was  that?  A  silvery  whiteness — vaguely  shaped 
as  a  human  form — receding,  fading,  gone!  Why  I  know  nor — 
for  no  face  was  visible,  no  form,  if  form  it  were,  more  distinct  than  / 
the  colorless  outline — why  I  know  not,  but  I  cried  aloud,  "Lilian  ! 
Lilian  !  "  My  voice  came  strangely  hack  to  my  own  car.  T 
smiled  and  blushed  at  my  folly.  "  So  I.  too,  have  learned  what 
is  superstition,"  I  muttered  to  myself.  "  And  here  is  an  anecdote 
at  my  own  expense  (as  Miiller  frankly  tells  us  anecdotes  of  the 
illusions  which  would  haunt  bis  eyes,  shul  or* open), an  anecdote  1 
may  quote  when  I  come  to  my  Chapter  on  the  Cheats  of  the  Senses 
and  Spectral  Phantoms."  I  went  on  with  my  book,  and  wrote 
till  the  lights  waned  in  the  grey  of  the  dawn.  And  I  said  then, 
in  the  triumph  of  my  pride,  as  I  laid  myself  down  to  ret.  ';  1 
have  written  that  which  allots  with  precision  man's  place  in  the 
region  of  nature;  written  tl  at  which  wil  found  a  school — form 
disciples  :  and  race  after  race  of  those  who  cultivate  truth  through 
pure  reason  shall  accept  my  basis  if  they  enlarge  my  building.' 
And  again  I  heard  the  sigh,  but  this  time  it  caused  no  surprise. 
"  Certainly,"  1  murmured,  "a  very  strange  thing  is  the  nervous 
system  !  "     So  I  turned  on  my  pillow,  and,  wearied  out,  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  next  day  the  last  of  I  be  visiting  patients  to  whom  my 
forenoons  were  devoted  had  just  quitted  me  when  I  was  summoned 
in  haste  to  attend  the  steward  of  a  Sir  Philip  Derval,  ;,ot  residing 

at  -his  family  scat,  which  was  about,  five  miles  from  L- .     It  was 

rarely  indeed  that  persons  so  far  from  the  town,  when  of  no  higher 
raid;  than  this  applicant,  asked  my  services.  But  it  was  my  prin- 
ciple to  go  wherever  i  was  summoned  ;  my  profession  was  not 
gain,  it  was  healing,  to  which  gain  was  an  incident,  not  the  essen- 
tial. This  case  the  messenger  reported  as  urgent.  I  went  on 
horseback,  and  rode  fast  ;  hut  swiftly  as  I  cantered  through  the 
village  hat  skirted  the  approach  to  Sir  Philip  Derval's  park,  the 
evident  care  bestowed  on  the  accommodation  of  the  cottagers 
forcibly  struck  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  on  the  lands  of  a  rich, 
intelligent-  and  beneficent  proprietor.  Entering  the  park,  and 
passing  before  the  manor-bouse,  the  contrast  between  the  neglect 
and  decay  of  the  absentee's  stately  ball  and  the  smiling  homes  of 
his  villagers  was  disconsolately  mournful. 

An  imposing  pile,  built  apparently  by  Vanbrugh,  the  decorated 
pilasters,  pompous  portico,  with  grand  perron  (or  double  flight  of 
stairs  to  the  entrance),  enriched  with  urns  and  statues,  but  dis- 
colored, mildewed,  chipped,  half  hid  with  unpruned  creepers  and 
ivy.     Most,  of  the  windows  were  closed  with  shutters,  decaying 


70  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

for  want  of  paint ;  in  some  of  the  oasements  the  pains  were  broken  ; 
the  peacock  perched  on  the  shattered  balustrade  thai  fenced  a 
garden  overgrown  with  weeds.  The  sun  glared  hotly  on  the 
place,  and  made  its  ruinous  condition  still  mure  painfully  apparent, 
1  was  a  ad  when  a  winding  in  the  park  road  shut  the  house  from 
my  sight.  Suddenly,  1  emerged  through  a  copse  of  ancient  yew- 
trees,  "and  before  me  there  gleamed,  in  abrupt  whiteness,  a  building 
evidently  designed  for  the  family  mausoleum.  Classical  in  its 
outline,  with  the  blind  iron  door  niched  into  stonewalls  of  massive 
tbiciiess.  and  surrounded  by  a  funereal  garden  of  roses  and  ever- 
greens, fenced  with  an  iron  rail,  parti-gilt. 

The  suddenness  with  which  this  House  of  the  Dead  came  upon 
me,  heightened  almost  Into  pain,  if  not  into  awe,  the  dismal 
impressions  which  the  aspect  of  the  deserted  home,  with  its  neigh- 
borhoods had  made.  1  spurred  my  horse  and  soon  arrived  at  the 
door  of  my  patient,  who  lived  in  a  fair  brick  house  at  the  ol 
extremity  of  the  park. 

1  found  my  patient,  a  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  but  of 
a  robust  conformation,  in  bed  :  he  had  been  seized  with  a  fit.  which 
was  supposed  to  be  apoplectic,  a  few  hours  before  ;  but  was  al- 
ready sensible,  and  out  of  immediate  danger.  After  1  had  pre- 
scribed a  few  simple  remedies,  1  took  aside  the  patient's  wife,  and 
went  with  her  to  the  parlor  below  stairs,  to  make  some  inquiry 
about  her  husband's  ordinary  regimen  and  habits  of  life.  .These 
seemed  sufficiently  regular;  1  could  discover  no  apparent  <■. 
■for  the  aitack,  which  presented  Symptoms  not  familiar  to  my  ex- 
perience.    '•  Has  vour  husband  never  had  such  fits  before  I  " 

"  Never." 

"  Had  he  experienced  any  sudden  emotion  1  Had  he  heard  any 
une\|  ected  news  ?    or  had  any  thing  happened  to  put  him  out  ?" 

The  woman  looked  much  disturbed  at  these  inquiries.  1  pressed 
them  more  urgently.  At  last  she  burst  into  tears,  and,  clasping 
my  hand,  said.  "Oh  !  doctor,  I  ought  to  tell  you — I  sent  for  you 
on  purpose — yot  1  fear  you  will  not  believe  me — my  good  man  has 
seen  a  ghost !" 

"  A  ghost  !  "  said  I,  repressing  a  smile.  "  Well,  tell  me  all  that 
I  may  prevent  the  ghost  coming  again." 

The  woman's  story  was  prolix.  Its  substance  was  this  :  Her 
husband,  habitually  an  early  riser,  had  left  his  bed  that  morning 
still  earlier  than  usual,  to  give  directions  about  some  cattle  that 
were  to-  he  sent  for  sale  to  a  neighboring  fair.  An  hour  afterwards 
he  had  been  found  by  a  shepherd  near  the  mausoleum  apparently 
li  elcss.  On  being  removed  to  his  own  bouse  he  had  recovered 
speech,  and  bidding  all  except  his  wife  leave  the  room,  he  then 
told  her  that  on  walking  across  the  park  toward  the  cattle-sheds 
he  had  seen  what  appeared  to  him  at  first  a  pale  light  by  the  iron 
door  nf  tire  mauso'eum.  On  approaching  nearer,  this  ight 
clanged  into  the  distinct  and  visible'  form    of   his  mailer,  Sir 


A    STRANGE    STORY-  71 

Philip  Derval,  who  was  then  abtpad — supposed  to  be  in  the  $ast — 

where  he  had  resided  for  many  years.  The  impression  on  the 
steward's  mind  was  so  strong  that  be  called  out,  "Oh!  Sir 
Philip  I  ?' when,  looking  still  more  intently,  lie  perceived  that  the 
face  was  that  ni'  a  corpse.  As  he  continued  to  gaze,  the  apparition 
seemed  gradually  to  recede,  as  if  vanishing  into  the  sepulchre 
itself,  lie  knew  no  more;  he  became  unconscious.  It  was  the 
excess  of  the  poor  woman's  alarm,  on  hearing  this  strange  tale, 
that  had  made  her  resolve  to  send  for  me  instead  of  the  parish 
apothecary.  She  fancied  so  astounding  a  cause  for  her  husband's 
seizure  could  only  be  properly  dealt  with  by  some  medical  man 
reputed  to  have  more  than  ordinary  learning.  t\nd  the  steward 
himself  objected  to  the  apothecary  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
as  more  likely  to  annoy  him  by  gossip  than  a  physician  from  a 
comparative  distance. 

1  took  care  not  to  lose  the  confidence  of  the  good  wife  by  para- 
ding top  quickly  my  disbelief  in  the  phantom  her  hrtsband  declared 
thai  he  had  seen;  hut  as  the  story  itself  seemed  at  once  to  decide 
the  nature  of  the  fit  to  be  epileptic,  I  began  to  tell  her  cS  similar 
delusions  which,  in  my  experience,  had  occurred  to  those  subjected 
to  epilepsy,  and  finally"  soothed  her  into  the  conviction  that  the 
aparition  was  clearly  reducible  to  natural  causes.  Afterward  I 
led  her  on  to  talk  about  Sir  Philip  Derval,  less  from  any  curiosity 
1  felt  about  the  absent  proprietor  than  from  my  desire  to  re-famil- 
iarize, her  own  mind  to  his  image  as  a  living  man.  The  steward 
had  been  in  tV  service  of  Sir  Philip's  father,  and  had  known  Sir 
Philip  himself  from  a  child,  lie  was  warmly  attached  to  his 
master,  whom  the  old  woman  described  as  a  man  of  rare  benevo- 
lence and  great  eccentricity,  which  last  she  imputed  to  his  studious 
habits,  lie  had  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates  as  a  minor. 
For  llx*  first  few  years  after  attaining  his  majority  he  had  mixed 
much  in  the  world.  When  at  Derval  Court  his  house  had  been 
tilled  with  gay  companions,  and  was  the  scene  of  lavish  hospitality. 
But  the  estate  was  not  in  proportion  to  the  grandeur  of  the  man- 
sion, still  less  to  the  expenditure  oi^  the  owner.  He  had  become 
greatly  embarrassed,  and  some  love  disappointment  (so  it  was 
rumored)  occurring  simultaneously  with  his  pecuniary  difficulties, 
he  had  suddenly  -changed  his  way  of  life,  shut  himself  up  from 
his  old  friends,  lived  in  seclusion,  taking  to  books  and  scientific 
pursuits*,  and,  as  the  old  woman  said,  vaguely  but  expressively, 
"  to  odd  ways."  He  had  gradually,  by  an  economy  that,  towards 
himself,  was  penurious,  but  which  did  not  preclude  much  judicious 
generosity  to  others,  cleared  off  his  debts,  and,  once  more  rich,  he 
had  suddenly  quitted  the  country,  and  taken  to  a  life  of  travel. 
He  was  now  about  forty-eight  years  old,  and  had  been  eighteen 
years  abroad.  He  wrote  frequently  to  his  steward,  giving. him 
minute  and  thoughtful  instructions  as  to  the  employment,  com- 
forts, and  homes  of  the  peasantry,  but.  peremptorily  ordering  him 


72  A    STRAiVGE    8T0RY. 

to  spend  no  money  on  the  grounds  and  mansion,  stating,  as.  a 
reason  why  the  latter  might  be  allowed  to  fall  to  decay",  his  in- 
tention to  put]  it  down  whenever  he  returned  to  England. 

I  staid  some  time  longer  than  my  engagements  well  warranted 
at  my  patient's  house,  not  leaving  till  the  sufferer,  after  a  quiet 
sleep,  had  removed  from  his  b"ed  to  his  arm-chair,  taken  food,  and 
seened  perfectly  recovered  from  his  attack. 

Siding  homeward' I  mused  on  the  difference  that  education  makes, 
even  pathologically,  between  man  and  man.  Here  was  a  brawny 
inhabitant  of  the  rural  fields;  leading  the  healthiest  of  lives,  not 
conscious  ©f  the  faculty  we  call  imagination,  stricken  down  almost 
to  death's  door  "by  his  fright  at  an  optical  illusian,  explicable,  if 
examined,  by  the  same  simple  causes  which  had  impressed  me 
the  nighfbefbre  with  armoment's  belief  in  a  sound  and  a  spectre — 
me,  who,  thanks  to  sublime  education,  went  so  quietly  to  sleep 
a  few  minutes  after,  convinced  that  no  phantom,  the  ghostliest 
that  ear  ever  heard,  or  eye  ever  saw,  can  be  any  thing  else  but  a 
nefvous  phenomenon. 


CHAPTEK  XXII. 


That  evening  I  went  to  Mrs.  Poyntz's;  it  was  one. of  her  or- 
dinary "  reception  nights,"  and  1  felt  that  she  would  naturally 
expect  my  attendance  as  "  a  proper  attention." 

I  joined  a  group  engaged  in  general  conversation,  of  which  Mrs. 
Poyntz  herself  made  the  center,  knitting,  as  usual,  rapidly  while 
she  talked,  slowly  when  she  listened. 

Without  mentioning  the  visit  I  had  paid  that  morning,  I  turned 
the  conversation  on.  the  different  country  places  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  then  incidentally  asked,  "  What  sort  of  a  man  is  Sir 
Philip  Derval  1  Is  it  not  strange  that  he  should  suffer  so  fine  a 
place  to  fall  into  decay'] "  The  answers  I  received  added  little  to 
the  information  I  had  already  obtained.  Mrs.  Poyntz  knew  nothing 
of  Sir  Philip  Derval,  except  as  a  man  of  large  estates,  whose  rental 
had  been  greatly  increased  by  a  rise  in  the  value  of  property  lie 

possessed  in  the  town  of  L -,  and  which   lay  contiguous  to  that 

of  her  husband.  Two  or  three  of  the  older  inhabitants  of  the  Hill 
had  remembered  him  in  his  early  days,  when  he  was  gay,  high- 
spirited,  hospitable,  lavish.     One  observed  that  the  only  person  in 

L whom  he  had  admitted  to  his  subsequent  seclusion  was  Dr. 

Lloyd,  who  was  then  without  practice,  and  whom  he  had  employed 
as  an  assistant  in  certain  chemical  experiments". 

Here  a  gentleman  struck  into  the  conversation.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  me  and  to  L r-,  a  visitor  to  one  "of  the  dwellers  on 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  7S 

the  Hill,  who  had  asked  leave  to  present  him  to  its  Queen  as  a 
great  traveler  and  an  accomplished  antiquarian. 

Said  this  gentleman  :  "Sir' Philip  Derval  I  tkiiGWlitra.  I. met 
him  in  tin-  East.  Hi'  was  then  still.  I  believe,  very  fund  of  chem- 
ical science;  a  clever,  odd,  philanthropfoal  man;  had  .studied 
medicine,  or  at  least,  practised  it  ;  was  said  to  have  made  many 
marvelous  eures.  1  became  acquainted , with  him  in  Aleppo.  11" 
had  come  to  that  town,  not  much  frequented  by  English  travelers, 
in  order  to  inquire  into  the  murder  of  two  men,  of  whom  one 'was 
his  friend,  and  the  other  his  countryman/' 

"  This  is  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  dryly.  "  We  who  live 
on  this  innocent  Hill  all  love  stories  pf  crime — murder  is  the 
pleasantesl  subject  yon  could  have  hit  on.  Pray  give  us  the 
details." 

"So  encouraged,"  said  the  traveler,  good-humoredly,,*" I  will 
not  hesitate  fo  communicate  the  little  I  know.  In  Aleppo  there 
had  lived  for  some  years  a  wan  who  was  held  by  the  natives  in 
great  reverence."  He  had  the*reputation  of  extraordinary  wisdom, 
but  was  diflioult  of  access;  the  lively  imagination  of  the  Orientals 
invested  his  character  with  the  fascinations  of  fable;  in  short, 
Ilaroun  of  Aleppo  was  popularly  considered  as  a  magician.  Wild 
stories  were  told  of  his  powers,  of  his  preter-naturaj  age,  of  his 
hoarded  treasures.  Apart  from  such  disputable  titles  to  homage, 
there  seemed  no  question,  from  all  I  heard,  that  his  learning  was 
considerable,  Ids  charities  extensive,  his  manner  of  life-  irreproach- 
ably ascetic.  Tie  appears  to  have  resembled  those  Arabian  sages 
of  ihe  Gothic  age  to  whom  modern  science  is  largely  indebted — a 
mystic  enthusiast  but.  an  earnest  scholar.  A  wealthy  but  singular 
Englishman,  long  resilient  in  another  part  of  the  East,  afflicted  by 
some  languishing  disease,  took  a  journey  to  Aleppo  to  consult  this 
sage,  who,  among  his  other  acquirements,  was  held  to  have  dis- 
covered rare  secrets  in  medicine — his  countrymen  said  in  'charms.' 
One  morning,  not  long  after  the  Englishman's  arrival,  Ilaroun  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed,  aparently  strangled,  and  the'  Englishman,'' 
who  lodged  in  another  part  of  the  town,  bad  disappeared  ;  but  some 
of  his  clothes,  and  a  crutch  on  which  he  habitually  supported  him- 
self, were  found  a  few  miles  distant  from  Aleppo  near  the  roadside. 
There  appeared  no  doubt  that  he,  too,  had  been  murdered,  but  his 
corpse  could* nol  be  discovered.  Sir  Philip  Derval  had  been  a 
loving  disciple  of  this  Sage  of  Aleppo,  to  whom  he  assured  me  he 
owed  not  only  that  knowledge  of  medicine  which,  by  report,  Sir 
Philip  possessed,  bul  the  insight  into  various  truths  of  nature,  on 
the  promulgation  of 'which  it  was  evident  Sir  Philip  cherished  the 
ambition  to  found  a  philosophical  celebrity  for  himself." 

"Of  what  description  were  those  truths  of  nature?"  I  asked, 
(Tiincwhat  sarcastically. 

::'.  1  am  unable  to  tell  yon,  for  Sir  Philip  did  n<  I    infi  mi  me, 
nor  did  1  much  care  to  ask,  for  what  may  be  revered  as   truths   in 


74  .     A    STRANGE    STOIIY. 

Asia  are  usually  despised  as  dreams  in  Europe.  To  return  to  my 
story.  Sir  Philip  bad  been  in  Aleppo  a  little  time  before  tbe  mur- 
der; he  lflfi  the  Englishman  under  the  care  of  Haroun ;  lie  re- 
turned to  Aleppo  on  bearing- the  tragic  exeats  1  have  related,  and 
was  busied  in  collecting  such  evidence  as  could  be  gleaned,  and 
instituting  inquiries  after  our  missing  countryman  at  the  time  that 
1  myself  chanced  to  arrive  in  the  city.  1  assisted  in  his  researches, 
hut  without  avail.  The  assassins  remained  undiscovered.  1  do 
not  myself  doubt  that  they  were  mere  vulgar  robbers.  Sir  Philip 
had  a  darker  suspicion,  of  which  he  made  no  secret  to  me,  but  as  I 
confess  that  I  thought  the  suspicion  groundless,  you  will  pardon 
if  I  do  not  repeat  it.  Whether,  since  I  left  the  East,  the 
Englishman's  remains  have  been  discovered,  I  know  not.  Very 
probably;  for  I  understand  that  his  heirs  have  got  hold  of  what 
fortune  lie  left,  less  than  was  generally  supposed,  but  it  was  report- 
ed that  he  bad  buried  great  treasures,  a  rumor,  however  absurd, 
not  altogether  inconsistent  with  bis  character." 

"  What  was  his  character?  "  asked  Mrs.  Poyntz. 

"  One  of  evil  and  sinister  repute,  lie  was  regarded  with  terror 
by  the  attendants  who  had  accompanied  him  to  Aleppo.  Bat  he 
had  lived  in  a  very  remote  part  of  the  East,  little  known  to 
Europeans,  and,  from  all  I  could  learn,  had  there  established  an 
extraordinary  power,  strengthened  by  superstitious  awe.  lie  was 
said  to  have  studied  deeply  that  knowledge  which  the  philosophers 
of  old  called  'occult,'  not,  like  the  Sage  of  Aleppo,  for  benevolent, 
but  for  malignant  ends. .  He  was  accused  of  conferring  with  evil 
spirits,  and  tilling  his  barbaric  court  (for  he  lived  in  a  kind  of 
savage  royalty)  with  charmers  and  sorcerers.  I  suspect,  after  all, 
thai  lie  was  only,  like  myself,  an  ardent  antiquarian,  and  cunningly 
ma#e  use  of  the  fear  he  inspired  in  order  to  secure  his  authority, 
and  prosecute,  in  safety,  researches  into  ancient  sepulchres  or 
temples.  His  great  passion  was,  indeed,  in  excavating  guch  re- 
mains iii  his  neighborhood,  with  what  result  I  know  not,  never 
having  penetrated  so  far  into  regions  infested  by  robbers  and  pesti- 
ferous with  malaria,  lie  wore  the  Eastern  dress,  and  always  car- 
ried jewels  about  him.  ['came  to  the  conclusion  that  for  the  sake 
of  these  jewels  he  was  murdered,  perhaps  by  some  of  his  own 
servants,  who  then  at  once  buried  his  body,  and  kept  their  own 
secrets.  He  was  old,  very  infirm;  could  never  have  got  far  from 
the  town  without  assistance." 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  his  name,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz. 

"  His  name  was  (Jrayle." 

"  Qraylc  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Poyntz,  dropping  her  work,  "  Louis 
Cray  lei" 

"  Yes,  Louis  (Jrayle.     You  could  not  have  known  him  ?  "        » 

.  "  Known  him  !     No.     But  I  have  often  heard  my  father  speak 

of  him.     Such,  then,  was  the  tragic  end  of  that  strong,  dark  creature, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  '  75 

for  whom,  as  a  young  girl  in  the  nursery,  1  used  to  feel   a  Kind  of 
feawfel,  admiring  interest  '.  " 

"It  is  your  turn  in  narrate  now,"  said  the  traveler. 

Ami  we  all  drew  closer  round  our  hosiess,  who  remained  silent 
some  moments,  bertyrow  thoughtful,  her  work  suspended. 

"Well,"  said  she,  at  las(\  looking  round  us  with  a  lofty  air  which 
seemed  $alf  defying;  "force  and  courage  are  always  fascinating, 
even  when  they  arc  quite  in  the  wrong.  1  go  with  the  world, 
because  the  world  goes  with  me;  if  it  did  not — "  Here  she 
slopped  for  a  moment,  clenched  the  firm,  white  hand,  and  then 
scornfully  waived  it,  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  and  broke  into 
another. 

.['Goingwitb  the  world,  of  course  we  must  march  over  those 
who  stand  againsl  it.  But  when  one  man  stands  single-handed 
against  our  march,  we  do  not  despise  him;  it  is  enough  to  crifsh. 
1  am  very  glad  1  did  uoi  see  Louis  Grayle  when  1  was  a  girl  of 
sixteen."'  Again  she  paused  a  moment — and  resumed:  "Louis 
Grayle  was  the  only  son  of  an  usurer,  infamous  for  the  rapacity 
wiih  which  he  had  acquired  enormous  wealth.  Old  Grayle  desired 
to  rear  his  heir  as  a  gentleman;  sent  him  to  Eton;  hoys  are 
always  aristocratic ;  bis  birth  was  soon  thrown  in  his  teeth;  he 
was  fierce;  he  struck  hoys  bigger  than  himself — fought  till  he  was 
half  killed.  My  fattier  was  a:  school  with  him  J  described  him  as 
a  tiger-whelp.  One  day  b< — still  a  fag — struck  a  sixth-form  l>:>y. 
Sixth-form  hoys  do  not  fighl  fags — they  punish  them.  Louis 
Grayle  was  ordered  to  hold  out  his  hand  to  the  cane;  lie  received 
the  blow,  drew  forth  his  school-boy  knife  and  stabbed  the  punisher. 
After  that  he  left  Eton.  1  don't  think  he  was  publicly  expelled — 
too  mere  a  child  for  that  honor — hut  he  was  taken  or  senl  away; 
educated  with  great  eare  under  thi  first  masters  at  home :  when 
he  was  of  age  lo  enter  the  University,  old  Grayle  was  dead.  Lbuis 
Was  senl  !,\  ids  guardians  to  Cambridge,  with  acquirements  far 
.  the  average  of  young  men,  and  with  unlimited  command 
of  money.  My  father  was  ai  the  same  college,  ami  described' him 
— haughty,  quarrelsome,  reckless,  han  rave. 

Does  that  kind  of  creature  interest  you,  my  dears?"  (appealing  to 
dies.) 

••  La  !  "  said  Miss  Brabazon  ;  "  a  horrid  usurer's  son  !  " 

"   .  r  proverb  says  it  is  good  to  he  horn  with  a 

silver  spoon  in  one's   mouth;    so  it  is  when  one  has  one's  own 
family  cresl  on  it;   hut  when  it  is  a  spoon   on  which    people    r 
ni/.e  their  family  crest-,  ami  cry  out,  '  Stolen  from  our  plate-cl  ■ 
it  is  that  outlaws  a  babe  in  his  cradle.     11 

men  ,:  money  are  let*  •  scrupulous 

than  ho;  d   are.     !  )  Ip  found,  while  at   col 

plenty  of  well-born  acquaintances  willi  iver  from  him 

father  ha<  He  was 

wild  ;  :    honors,  hul    my  !■ 


76  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

said  that  the  tutors  of  the  college  declared  that  there  were  not  six 
undergraduates  in  (lie  university  who  knew  as  much  hard  and  dry 
science  as  Wild  Louis  Grayle.  He  went  into  the  world,  no  doubt, 
hoping  to  shine,-  but  his  father's  name  was  too  notorious  to  admit 
the  son  into  good  society.  The  Polite  World,  it  is  true,  does  not 
examine  a  scutcheon  with  the  nice  eye  of  a  herald,. nor  look  upon 
riches  with  the  stately  contempt  of  a  stoic — still,  the  Police  World 
has  its  family  pride  and  its  moral  sentiment.  It  does  not  like  to 
be  cheated — I  mean  in  money  matters — and  when  the  son  of  the 
man  who  has  emptied  its  purse  and  foreclosed  on  its  acres,  rides 
by  its  club  windows,  hand  on  haunch,  and  head  in  the  air,  no  lion 
has  a  scowl  more  awful,  no  hyaena  a  laugh  more  dread,  than  that 
same  easy,  good-tempered,  tolerant,  polite,  well-bred  world  which  is 
so  pleasant  an  acquaintance,  so  languid  a  friend,  and— so  remorseless 
an  enemy.  In  short,  Louis  Grayle  claimed  the  right  to  be  court- 
ed— he  was  shunned  ;  to  be  admired — he  was  loathed.  Even  his. 
old  college  acquaintances  were  shamed  out  of  knowing  him.  Per- 
haps he  could  have  lived  through  all  this  had  he  sought  to  glide 
quietly  into  position;  but  he  wanted  the  tact  of  the  well-bred,  and 
strove  to  storm  his  way,  not  to  steal  it.  Reduced  for  companions 
to  needy  parasites,  he  braved  and  he  shocked  all  decorous  opinion 
by  that  ostentation  of  excess  which  made  Richelieus  and  Lauzuns 
the  rage.  But  then  Richelieus  and  Lauzuns  were  dukes !  '  He 
now  very  naturally  took  the  Polite  World  into  hate — gave  it  scorn 
fur  scorn.  He  would  ally  himself  with  Democracy  ;  his  wealth 
could  not  get  him  into  a  club,  but  it  would  bi.y  him  into  parliament ; 
he  could  not  be  a  Lauzun,  nor,  perhaps,  a  Mirabeau  ;  but  he  might 
be  a  Danton.  He  had  plenty  of  knowledge  and  audacity,  and 
with  knowledge  and  audacity  a  good  hater  is  sure  to  be-eloquent, 
Possibly,  then,  this  poor  Louis  Grayle  might  have  made  a  great, 
figure,  left  his -mark  on  his  age  and  his  name  in  history;  but  in 
contesting  the  borough  which  he  was  sure  to  carry,  he  had  to  face 
an  opponent  in  a  real  fine  gentleman  whom  his  father  had  ruined, 
coql  and  high-bred,  with  a  tongue  like  a  rapier,  a  sneer  like  an 
adder.  A  quarrel  of  course;  Louis  Grayle -sent  a  challenge.  The 
fine  gentleman,  known  to  be  no  coward  (fine  gentlemen  never  are), 
was  at  first  disposed  to  refuse  with  contempt,  ■  But  Grayle  had 
made  himself  the  idol  of  the  mob  ;  and  at  a  word  from  Grayle  the 
fine  gentleman  might  have  been  ducked  at  a  pump,  or  tossed  in  a 
blanket — that  would  have  made  him  ridiculous — to  be  shot  at  is  a 
trifle,  to  be  laughed  at  is  serious.  He  therefore  condescended  to 
accept  the  challenge,  and  my  father  was  his  second. 

"  It  was  settled,  of  course,  according  to  English  custom,  that 
both  combatants  should  fire  at  the  same  time,  and  by  signal.  The 
antagonist  fired  at  the  right  moment ;  his  ball  grazed  Louis  Grayle's 
le.  Louis  Grayle  had  not  fired.  Lie  now  seemed  to  the 
seconds  to  take  slow  and  deliberate  aim.  They  called  cut  to  him 
not  to  fire — they  were  rushing  to  prevent  him — when  the  trigger 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  7? 

\ 

was  pulled  and  his  opponent  fell  dead  on  the  field.  The  fight  was, 
therefore,  considered  unfair.;  Louis  Grayle  was  tried  for  his  life; 
he  did  not  stand  the  trial  in  person.  He  escaped  to  the  oontinenl  ; 
hurried  on  to  some  distant,  uncivilized  lands;  could  not  be  traced; 
reappeared  in  England  no  more*  The  lawyer  who  conducted 
his  defence  pleaded  skilfully.  He  argued  that  the  delay  in  firing 
was  not  intentional,  therefore  not  criminal — the  efiecl  of  the  stun 
which  the  wound  it  the  temple  had  occasioned.  The  Judge  was 
a  gentleman,  and  Summed  up  the  evidence  so  as  to  direct  the  jun- 
to a,  verdict  against  the  low  wretch  who  had  murdered  a  gentle- 
man. But  the  jurors  were  riol  gentlemen,  and  (irayle's  advi 
had  of  cours?  excited  their  sympathy  for  a  son  of  the  people 
whom  a  gentleman  had  wantonly  insulted — the  verdict  was  man- 
slaughter. Bui  the  sentence  emphatically  marked  the  aggravated 
nature  of  the  homicide — three  years'  imprisonment.  '  Srayle  eluded 
the  prison,  but  he  was  a  man  disgraced,  his  ambition  blasted,  his 
career  an  outlaw's,  and  his  age  not  yet  twenty-three.  He  left  the 
country.  My  father  said  thai  he  was  supposed  to  have  changed 
his  name ;  none  knew  whal  had  become  of  him.  And  so  in  his 
old  age  this  creature,  brilliant  and  daring,  whom  if  born  under 
better  auspices  we  might  now  he  all  fawning  on,  cringing  to — after 
living  to  old  age,'  \u\  one  knows  how — dies,  murdered  at  Aleppo, 
no  one,  you  Bay,  knows  by  whom." 

"  1  saw  some  account  of  his  death  in  the  papers,  about  three 
years  ago,"  said  one  of  the  parly,  "  hut  the  name  was  misspelled, 
and  1  had  no  idea  that  it  was  the  same  man  who  had  fought  the 
duel'which  Mrs.  Colonel  Poyiltz  has  so  graphically  described.  1 
have  a  vague  recollection  of  the  trial ;  ii  took  place  when  I  was  a 
boy,  more  than  forty  years  since.  The  affair  made  a  stir  at  the 
time,  but  was  soon  forgotten." 

"  Soon  forgotten,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz  ;  "  ay.  what  is  not  ?     Leave 

your  place  in  the  world  for  ten  minutes,  and  when  you  come  hack. 

somebody  else  has  taken  it  ;  hut  when   you    leave  the  world  for 

'  good,  who  remembers  that  you  had  ever  a  [dace  even  in  the  parish 

register  !  " 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  1,  "  a  great  poet  has  said,  finely  and  truly, 

"  '  The  sun  of  Hom<  r  shines  apon  us  still.'  " 

'*  But  It  does  not  shine  upon  Homer ;  and  learned  folks  tell  me 

that  we  know  no  mure  who  and  what  Homer  was,  if  there  was  ever 
a  single  Homer  at  all,  or  rather  a  whole  herd  of  Homers,  than  we 
know  about  the  man  in  the  moon — if  there  he  one  man  there,  or  a 
million.  Now,  my  dear  Miss  Brabazon,  it  will  he  very  kind  in  you 
to  divert  our  thoughts  into   channels    less   gloomy.     Some   pretty 

French  air l>r.  Fenwh  k,  1  have    something  to  say  to  you." 

She  drew  me  toward  the  window.  "So  Anne  AshPeigh  writes 
me  word  that  1  am  not  to  mention  your  engagement  Do  you 
think  it  quite  prudent  to  keep  it  a  secret  ( " 


78  a  strange;  story. 

%;. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  prudence  is  concerned  in  keeping  it  secret 
one  way  or  the'oiber — it  is  a  mere  mailer  of  feeling.  Mostpeople 
wish  to  abridge,  so  far  as  they  can,  the  time  in  which  their  private- 
arrangements  are  the  topic  of  public  gossip."  ' 

ssip  is  sometimes  the  best  securityjbr  the  due  com- 
pletion of  private  arrangements.    As  long  as  a  girl  is  not  known 
to  be  engage;!,  her  betrothed  must  be  prepared  for  rivals:     Ari- 
be  engagement  and  rivals  are  warned'eff." 

'•  1  fear  no  rivals." 

"Do  you  not  ?     Bol  i  man  !    J  suppose  you  will  write  to  Lilian  1 " 
irtainly." 

"  Do  so,  and  constantly.  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  before  she 
went,  asked  me  to  send  her  back  Lady  Haughton's  letter  of  in* 
vitation.     What  for?  to  show  to  you?" 

"  Very  likely.  ■  Have  you  the  letter  still  ?     May  T  see  it  I  "  \. 

"  Not  just  at  present.  When  Lilian  or  Mrs.  Ashleigh  'write  -tS 
you,  come  and  tell  me  how  they  like  their  visit,  and  what  other 
guests  form  the  ptrty." 

Therewith  she  turned  away  and  conversed  apart  with  the  traveler. 
i'  words  disquieted  me,  and  I  felt  that  they  were  meant  to  do 
so.  Wherefore,  I  could  not  guess.  But.  there  is  no  language  on 
earth  which  has  more  words  with  a  double* meaning  than  that 
spoken  by  the  Clever  Woman,  who  is  never  so  guarded  as  when 
sue  appears  to  be  frank.    • 

As  1  walked  home  thoughtfully  I  was  accosted  by  a  young  man, 
the  son  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  merchants  in   the  town.     I  had' 
tided  him  with   success,  some  months  before,  in   a  rheumatic. 
i'vwv;  lie  and  his  family  were  much  attached  to  me. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Fenwick,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  owe  you  an 
obligation  of  which  you  are  not  aware — an  exceedingly  pleasant 
traveling  companion.  I  came  with  him  to-day -from  London, 
where  L  have  been  sight-seeing  and  holiday -making'  tor  the  last 
fortnight." 

"  1  suppose  you  mean  that  you  kindly  bring  me  a  patient  ?  " 

"  No.  only  an  admirer.  I  was  staying  at  Fenton's  Hotel.  It  so 
happened  one  day  that  I  had  left  in  the  coffee-room  your  last  work 
on  the  Vital  Principle,  which,  by-t he-bye,  the  bookseller  assures  me 
is  selling  immensely  among  readers  as  non-professional  as  myself. 
(Joining  into  the  coffee-room  again  I  found  a  gentleman  reading  it. 
I  claimed  it  politely;  lie  as  politely  tendered  his  excuse  for  taking 
it.#  We  made  acquaintance  on  the  spot.  The  next  day  we  were 
intimate,  lie  expressed  great  interest  and  curiosity  about  your 
theory  and  your  experiments.  I  told  him  I  knew  you.  You  may 
guess  if  1  described   you  as  less  clever  in  your  practice  than  you 

are  in  your  writings.     And,  in  short,  he   crime  with   me  to  L , 

partly  to  see  our  flourishing  town,  principally  on  my  promise  to 
introduce  him  to  you.  My  mother,  you  know,  has  what  she  calls 
a  dejeuner  to'-morfow  ;  dejeuner  and  dance.     You  will  be  there  ?  " 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  79 

"Thank  you  for  reminding  me  of  her  invitation,    I  "Will  avail 

myself  of  ir  if  I  can.  Your  new  friend  will  be  presenl  .'  Who  and 
whiat  is  he  ?     A  medical  student  1  " 

"No,  a  mere  gentleman  at  ease;,  but  seems  to  have  a  good  deal 
of  generallinformation.  Very  young;  apparently  very  rich;  won- 
derfully good-looking.  1  am  sure  you  will  like  him  ;  everybody 
must,"   • 

"  It  is  quite  enough  to  prepare  me  to  like  him,  that  he  is  a  friend 
01  yours."     And  SO  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  before  I  was 
able  to  join  the  party  assembled  at  the  merchant's  house;    it   was 

a  villa  about  two  miles  out  of  the  town,  pleasantly  situated,  amidst 
flower-gardens  celebrated  in  the  neighborhood  for  their  be. 
The  breakfast  had  been  long  over;  the  company  was  scattered 
over  the  lawn  ;  some  seated  under  shady  awnings;  others  gliding 
amidst  parterres,  in  which  all  the  glow  of  color  took  a  glory  yet 
more  vivid  under  the  Hush  of  a  brilliant  sunshine,  and  the  .ripple  Of 
a  soft  western  breeze.  Music,  loud  and  lively,  mingled  with  the 
laughter  of  happy  children,  who  formed  much  the  larger  number 
of  the  parly. 

Standing  at  the' entrance  of  an  arched  trellis,  that  led  from  the 
hardier  flowers  of  the  lawn  to  a  'rare  collection  of  tropical  plants 
under -a  lofty  glass  dome  (connecting*  as  it  were,  the  familiar  Vege- 
tation of  the  North  with  that  of  the  remotest  East.)  was  a  form 
that  instantaneously  caught  ami  fixed  my  gaze.  The  entrance  of 
the  arcade  was  covered  with  parasite  creepers  in  prodigal  luxuri- 
,  of  variegated,  gorgeous  tints — scarlet,  golden,  purple — and 
the  form,  an  idealized  picture  of  man's  youth  fresh  from  the  hand 
of  Nature,  stood  literally  in  a  frame  of  blooms.  Never  have  1  seen 
human  face  so  radiant  as  that  young  man's. 

Therc'.was  in  the  aspect  an  iudeserihable  something  that  literally 
dazzled.  As  one  continued  to  gaze,  it  was  with  surprise  one  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  thai  in  the  features  themselves  there  wai  no 
faultless  regularity  ;  nor  was  the  young  man's  stature  imposing — 
about  the  middle  height.  But  the  effect  of  the  whole  was  not  less 
transcendent.  Larue  eyes,  unspeakably  lustrous  ;  a  most  harmoni- 
ous coloring  ;  an  expression 'of  contagious  animation  and  joyous- 
D68S;  and  the  form  itself  so  critically  tine  that  the  wedded  Strength 
of  its  sinews  was  best  shown  in  the  lightness  and  grace  of  it* 
Movements.  , 


80  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

He  was  resfirtg  one  hand  carelessly  on  the  golden  locks  of  a 
chikl  thai  had  nestled  itself  against  his  knees,  looking  up  in  his 
lace  in  that  silent  loving  Wonder  with  which  children  regard  some- 
thing too  strangely  beau  iful  for  noisy  admiration  ;  he  himself  was 
conversing  with  the  host,  an  old  gray-haired,  gouty  man,  propped 
on  his  crutch-stick,  and  listening  with  a  look  of  mournful  envy. 
To  the  wealth  of  the  old  man,  all  the  flowers  in  that  garden  owed 
their  renewed  delight  in  the  summer  air  and  sun.  Oh  that  his 
wealth  could  renew  to  himself  one  hour  of  the  youth  that  stood 
beside  him.,  lord,  indeed,  of  Creation  ;  its  splendor  woven  into 
his  crown  of  beauty;  its  -enjoyments  subject,  to  his  sceptre  of 
hope  and  gladness  ! 

I  was  star) led  by  the  hearty  voice  of  ihe  merchant's  son  :  "  Ah, 
my  dear  Fenwick,  I  .was  afraid  you  would  not  come — you  are 
late.  There  is  the  new  friend  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you  -last  night ; 
let  me  now  make  you  acquainted  with  him."  He  drew  my  arm 
is  and  led  me  up  to  the  young  man,  where  he  stood  under  the 
arc-ling  flowers,  and  whom  he  then  introduced  to  me  by  the  name 
of  Margrave. 

Nothing  could  be  more  frankly  cordial  than  Mr.  Margrave's 
manner.  In  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself  conversing  with  him 
familiarly,  as  if  we  had  been  reared  in  the  same  home,  and  sported 
together  on  the  same  play-ground.  His  vein  of  talk  w.its  peculiar, 
and,  careless,  'shifting  from  topic  to  topic,  with  a  bright 
rapidity. 

He  said  that  he  lil  ed  the  place  ;  proposed  to  stay  in  it  some 
weeks  ;  asked  my  address,  which  I  gave  to  him  ;  promised  to  call 
soon  at  an  early  hour,  while  my  time  was  yet  free  from  professional 
visits.  I  endeavored,  when.  I  went  away,  to  analyze  to  myself 
the  fascination  which  this  young  stranger  so  notably  exercised 
over  all  who  approached  him  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  ever  seeking 
to  find  material  causes  for  all  moral  effects,  that  it  arose  from  the 
contagious  vitality  of  that  rarest  of  all  rare  gifts  in  highly  civil- 
ized circles — perfect  health;  that  health  which  is  in  itself  the  most 
exquisite  luxury,  which,  rinding  happiness  in  the  mere  sense  of 
existence,  diffuses  round  it,  like  an  atmosphere,  the  harmless  hi- 
larity of  its  bright- animal  being.  Health,  to  the  utmost  perfec- 
tion, is  seldom  known  after  childhood  ;  health  to  the  utmost  can- 
not be  enjoye'3  by  those  who  overwork  the  brain,  or  admit  the  sure 
wear  and  tear  of  the  passions.  The  creature  1  had  just  seen  gave 
me  the  notion  of  youth  in  the  golden  age  of  the -poets — the  youth 
of  the  careless  Arcadian,  before  nymph  or  shepherdess  had  vexed 
his  heart  with  a  sigh. 


A    STRAXGM    STORY.  81 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


The  home  I  occupied  at  L was  a  quaint,  old-fashioned 

.building — a  comer  house — one  side,  in  which  was  the  front  en- 
trance, looked  upon  a  street  which,  as  t  here  were  no  shops  in  it.  and 
it  was  no  direct  thoroughfare  to  the  busy  centres  of  thrown,  was 
always  quiet,  and  al  some  hours  of  the  day  almost  deserted.  The 
other  side  of  the  house  fronted  a  lane;  opposite  to  it  was  the  long 
and  high  wall  of  the  garden  to  a  Young  Ladies'  Boarding  School. 
My  stables  adjoined  the  house,  abutting  on  a  row  of  smaller  build- 
ings, with  little  gardens  before  them  chiefly  occupied  by  mercantile 
clerks  and  retired  tradesmen.  By  the  lane  there  was  .short  and 
ready  access  both  to  the  high  turnpLe-road  and  to  some  pleasant 
walks  through  green  meadows  and  along  the  banks  of  a  river. 

This  house  I  had  inhabited  since  my  arrival  at  L ,  and  it  had 

to  me  so  many  attractions,  in  a  situation  sufficiently  centra:  lo  be 
convenient  for  patients,  and  yet  free  from  noise,  and  favorable  to 
ready  outlet  into  the  country  for  such  foot  or  horse  exercise  as  my 
professional  a  vocations  would  allow  me  to  carve  for  myself  out)  of 
what  the  Latin  poet  cabs  the  '-solid  mass  of  the  day,"  that  1  had 
refused  to  change  it  for  one  better  suited  to  my  increased  income; 
but  it  was  not  a  house  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh  would  have  liked  for 
Lilian.  The  main  objection  to  it,  in  the  eyes  of  the  "genteel," 
was.  that  it  had  formerly  belonged  to  a  member  of  the  healing  pro- 
fession, who  united  the  shop  of  an  apothecary  to  the  diploma  of  a 
surgeon  ;  but  that  shop  had  given  the  house  a  special  attraction  to 
me;  for  it  had  been  built  out  on  that  side  of  the  house  which 
fronted  the  lane,  occupying  the  greater  portion  of  a  small  gravel 
court,  fenced  from  the  road  by  a  low  iron  palisade,  and  separated 
from  the  body  of  the  house  itself  by  a  short  and  narrow  corridor 
that  communicated  with  the  entrance-hall.  -This  shop  1  turned 
into  a  rude  study  fur  scientific  experiments  in  which  I  generally 
spent  some  early  hours  of  the  morning,  before  my  visiting  patients 
began  to  arrive.  1  enjoyed  the  stillness  of  its  separation  from  the 
rest  of  the  house  ;  I  enjoyed  the  glimpse  of  the  great  chestnut- 
trees  which  overtopped  the  wall  of  the  school  garden  ;  1  enjoyed 
the  ease  with  which,  by  opening  the  glazed  sash-door,  I  could  get 
out,  if  disposed  for  a  short  walk,  into  the  pleasant  Gelds;  and  so 
completely  had  I  made  tins  sanctuary  my  own,  that  not  only  my 
manservant  knew  that  1  was  never  to  be  disturbed  when  in  it,  ex- 
cept by  iff  summons  of  a  patient,  but  even  the  house-maid  was 
forbidden  to  enter  it  with  broom  or  duster  except  upon  special  in- 
vitation. The  last  thing  At  night  before  retirina^o  rest,  it  was  the 
man-servant's  business  to  see  that  the  sash-window  was  closed  and 
6 


82  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

the  gate  to  the  iron  palisade  locked,  but  during  the  daytime'  I  so 
often  went  out  of  the  house  by  that  private  way  that  the  gate  was 
then  very  seldom  locked,  nor  the  sash-door  bolted  within.  In  the 
town  of  L there  was  very  little  apprehension  of  house-robbe- 
ries— especially  in  the  daylight — and  certainly  in  this  room,  cut  off 
from  the  main  building,  there  was  nothing  to  attract  a  vulgar 
cupidity.  A  few  of  the  apothecary's  shelves  and  cases  still  re- 
mained on  the  walls,  with  here  and  there  a  bottle  of  some  chemical 
preparation  for  experiment.  Two  or  three  worm-eaten  wooden 
chairs  ;  two  or  three  shabby  old  tables  ;  an  old  walnut-tree  bureau, 
without  a  lock,  into  which  odds-and-ends  were  confusedly  thrust, 
and  sundry  ugly-looking  inventions  of  mechanical  science,  were  as- 
suredly not  the  articles  which  a  timid  proprietor  would  guard  with 
jealous  care  from  the  chances  of  robbery.  It  will  be  seen  later  why 
I  have  been  thus  prolix  in  description.  The  morning  after  I  had 
met  the  young  stranger  by  whom  I  had  been  so  favorably  im- 
pressed, I  was  up,  as  usual,  a  little  before  the  sun,  and  long  before 
any  of  my  servants  were  astir.  I  went  first  into  the  room  I  have 
mentioned,  and  which  I  shall  henceforth  designate  as  my  study, 
opened  the  window,  unlocked  the  gate,  and  sauntered  for  some 
minutes  up  and  down  the  silent  lane  skirting  the  opposite  wall  and 
overhung  by  the  chestnut-trees,  rich  in  the  garniture  of  a  glorious 
sutnnter;  then,  refreshed  for  work,  I  reentered  my  study,  and  was 
soon  absorbed  in  the  examination  of  that  now  well-known  machine, 
which  was  then,  to  me  at  least,  a  novelty — invented,  if  I  remember 
right,  by  Monsieur  Dubois  Reynolds,  so  distinguished  by  his  re- 
searches into  the  mysteries  of  organic  electricity.  It  is  a  wooden 
cylinder  fixed  against  the  edge  of  a  table  ;  on  the  table  two  vessels 
filled  with  salt  and  water  are  so  placed  that,  as  you  close  your  hands 
on  the  cylinder,  the  forefinger  of  each  hand  can  drop  into  the 
water  ;  each  of  the  vessels  has  a  metallic  plate,  and  communicates 
by  wires  with  a  galvanometer  with  its  needle.  Now  the  theory  is, 
that  if  you  clutch  the  cylinder  firmly  with  the  right  hand,  leaving 
the  left  perfectly  passive,  the  needle  in  the  galvanometer  will  move 
from  west  to  south  ;  if,  in  like  manner,  you  exert  the  left  arm,  leav- 
ing the  right  arm  passive,  the  needle  will  deflect  from  west  to  mirth. 
Hence,  it  is  argued  that  the  electric  current  is  induced  through  the 
agency  of  the  nervous  system,  and  that  as  human  Will  produces 
the  muscular  contraction  requisite,  so  is  it  human  Will  that  causes 
the  deflection  of  the  needle.  I  imagined  that  if  this  theory  were 
substantiated'  by  experiment,  the  discovery  might  lead  to  Some 
sublime  and  unconjectured  secrets  of  science.  For  human  Will, 
thus  actively  effective  on  the  electric  current,  and  all  matter,  ani- 
mate or  inanimate,  having  more  or  less  of  electricity,  a  vast  field 
became  opened  to  conjecture.  By  what  series  of  patient  experi- 
mental deduction'might  not  science  arrive  at  the  solution  of  pro- 
blems which  the  Newtonian  law  of  gravitation  does  not  suffice  to 
solve  ;  and-- — But  I  must  not  suffer  myself  to  be  led  away  into 


A    STRANGE    STORT.  83 

the  vasrue  world  of  guess  by  the  vague  reminiscences  of  a  knowl- 
edge long  since  wholly  neglected,  or  half  forgotten. 

I  was  dissatisfied  with  ray  experiment.  The  needle  stirred,  in- 
deed, but  erratically,  and  not  in  directions  which,  according  to  the 
theory,  should  correspond  to  my  movement.  I  was  about  to  dis- 
miss the  trial  with  some  uncharitable  contempt  of  the  French 
philosopher's  dogmas,  when  I  heard  a  loud  ring  at  my  street  door. 
While  1  paused  to  conjecture  whether  my  servant  was  yet  up  to  at- 
tend to  the  door,  and  which  of  my  patients  was  the  most  likely  to 
summon  me  at  so  unseasonable  an  hour,  a  shadow  darkened  my 
window.  I  looked  up,  and  to  my  astonishment  beheld  the  brilliant  • 
face  of  Mr.  Margrave.  The  sash  to  the  door  was  already  partially 
opened  ;  he  raised  it  higher  and  walked  into  the  room.  "  Was  it 
you  who  rang  at  the  street  door,  and.  at  this  hour?"  said  I. 

"Yes;  and  observing  after  I  had  rung,  that  all  the  shutters 
were  still  closed,  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  own  rash  action,  and  made 
off  rather  than  brave  the  reproachful  face  of  some  injured  house- 
maid, robbed  of  her  morning  dreams.  I  turned  down  that  pretty 
lane — lured  by  the  green  of  the  chestnut-trees — caught  sight  of  you 
through  the  window,  took  courage,  and  here  I  am  !  You  forgive 
me.'"  While  thus  speaking  he  continued  to  move  along  the  lit- 
tered floor  of  the  dingy  room  with  the  undulating  restlessness  of 
some  wild  animal  in  the  confines  of  its  den,  and  he  now  went  on,  in 
short  fragmentary  sentences,  very  slightly  linked  together,  but 
smoothed,  as  it  were,  into  harmony  by  a  voice  musical  and  fresh  as 
a  skylark's  warble.  "  Morning  dreams,  indeed  !  dreams  that  waste 
the  life  of  such  a  morning.  Rosy  magnificence  of  a  summer  dawn  ! 
Do  you  not  pity  the  fool  who  prefers  to  lie  abed,  and  to  dream 
rather  than  to  live?  What !  and  you,  strong  man,  with  those  noble 
limbs,  in  this  den  !  Do  you  not  long  for  a  rush  through  the  green 
of  the  fields,  a  bath  in  the  blue  of  the  river  1" 

Here  he  came  to  a  pause,  standing,  still  in  the  gray  light  of  the 
growing  day,  with  eyes  whose  joyous  lustre  forestalled  the  sun's, 
and  lips  which  seemed  to  laugh  even  in  repose. 

Bui  presently  those  eyes,  as  quick  as  they  were  bright,  glanced 
over  the  walls,  the  floor,  the  shelves,  the  phials,  the  mechanical  in- 
ventions, and  then  rested  full  on  my  cylinder  fixed  to  the  table. 
He  approached,  examined  it  curiously,  asked  what  it  was  I  I  ex- 
plained. To  gratify  him,  I  sat  down,  and  renewed  my  experiment, 
with  equally  ill  success.  The  needle,  which  should  have  moved 
from  west  to  south,  describing  an  angle  of  from  30  deg.  to  40  or 
even  50  deg.  only  made  a  few  troubled  undecided  oscillations. 

"Tut!"  cried  the  young  man,  "  I  see  what  it  is;  you  have  a 
wound  in  your  right  hand." 

Thai  was  true.  I  had  burned  my  hand  a  few  days  before  in  a 
chemical  experiment,  and  the  sore  had  not  healed. 

"  Well,"  said  I.  "and  what  does  that  mailer?" 

"  Everything  ;  the  least  scratch  in  the  skin  of  the  hand  produces 


84  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

chemical  actions  on  the  electric  current,  independently  of  your 
will.    Let  me  try." 

He  took  my  place,  and  in  a  moment  the  needle  in  the  galva- 
nometer responded  to  his  grasp  on  the  cylinder,  exactly  as  the 
French  philosopher  had  stated  to  be  I  he  due  result  of  the  experiment. 

I  was  startled. 

"  But  how  came  you,  Mr.  Margrave,  to  be  so  ^ell  acquainted 
with  a  scientific  process  little  known,  and  but  recently  discovered  V 

"  I  well  acquainted  !  not  so.  But  I  am  fond  of  all  experiments 
that  relate  to  animal  life.    Electricity  especially  is  full  of  interest." 

On  that  J  drew  him  out  (as  I  thought),  and  he  talked  volubly.  I 
was  amazed  to  find  this  young  man.  in  whose  brain  I  had  conceived 
thought  kept,  one  careless  holiday,  was  evidently  familiar  with  the 
physical  sciences,  and  especially  with  chemistry,  which  was  ray  own 
study  by  predilection.  But  never  had  I  met  with  a  student  in 
whom  a  knowledge  so  extensive  was  mixed  up  with  notions  so 
obsolete  or  so  crotchety.  In  one  sentence  he  showed  that  he  had 
mastered  some  late  discovery  by  Faraday  or  Liebig  ;  in  the  next 
sentence  he  was  talking  the  wild  fallacies  of  Cardan  or  Vn  Hel- 
mont.  I  burst  out  laughing  at  some  paradox  about  sympathetic 
powders,  which  he  enounced  as  if  it  were  a  recognized  truth. 

"  Pray  tell  me,"  said  I,  "who  was  your  master  in  physics,  for  a 
cleverer  pupil  never  had  a  more  crack-brained  teacher." 

"  No,"  lie  answered,  with  his  merry  laugh,  "it  is  not  the  teach- 
er's fault.  I  am  a  mere  parrot ;  just  cry  out  a  few  scraps  of  learn- 
ing picked  up  here  and  there.  But,  however,  I  am  fond  of  all 
researches  into  nature  ;  all  guesses  at  her  riddles.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  one  reason  why  I  have  taken  to  you  so  heartily  is  not  only 
that,  your  published  work  caught  my  fancy  in  the  dip  which  I 
took  into  the  contents  (pardon  me  if  I  say  dip,  I  never  do  more 
than  dip  into  any  book),  but  also  because  young  *  *  *  *  tells  me 
that  which  all  whom  I  have  met  in  this  town  confirm  ;  namely, 
that  you  are  one  of  those  few  practical  chemists  who  are  at  once 
exceedingly  cautious  and  exceedingly  bold — willing  to. try  every 
new  experiment,  but.  submitting  experiment  to  rigid  tests.  Well,  I 
have  an  experiment  running  wild  in  this  giddy  head  of  mine,  and  I 
want,  you,  .some  day  when  at  leisure,  to  catch  it,  fix  it  as  you  have 
fixed  that  cylinder:  make  something  of  it.     I  am  sure  you  can." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Something  akin  to  the  theories  in  your  work.  You  would  re- 
plenish or  preserve  to  each  special  constitution  the  special  sub- 
stance that  may  fail  to  the  equilibrium  of  its  health.  But  you  own 
that  in  a  large  proportion  of  cases,  the  best  cure  of  disease  is  less 
to  deal  with  the  disease  itself  than  to  support  and  stimulate  the 
whole  system,  so  as  to  enable  nature  to  cure  the  disease  and  re- 
store the  impaired  equilibrium  by  her  own  agencies.  Thus,  if  you 
find  "that  in  certain  cases  of  nervous  debility  a  substance  like  nitric 
.acid  is  efficacious,  it  is  because  the  nitric,  acid  has  a  virtue  in  lock- 


A    STRANGE    STORY:  85 

ing  up,  as  it  were,  the  nervous  energy,  that,  is,  preventing  all  undue 
waste.  Again,  in  some  eases  of  what  is  commonly  called  feverish 
cold,  stimulants  like  ammonia  assist  nature  itself  to  get  rid  of  the 
disorder  that  oppresses  its  normal  action  ;  and,  on  the  same  princi- 
ple, 1  apprehend,  it  is  contended  that  a  large  average  of  human 
lives  is  saved  in  those  hospitals  which  have  adopted  the  supporting 
system  of  ample  nourishment  and  alcoholic  stimulants." 

"Your  medical  learning  surprises  me,"  said  I,  smiling,  "and 
without  pausing  to  notice  where  it  deals  somewhat  superficially 
with  disputable  points  in  general,  and  my  own  theory  in  particular, 
1  ask  you  for  the  deduction  you  draw  from  your  premises." 

"It  is  simply  tins:  that  to  all  animate  bodies,  however  various, 
there  must  be  one  principle  in  common — the  vital  principle  itself. 
What  if  there  he  one  certain  means  of  recruiting  that  principle  .' 
and  what  if  that  secret  can  he  discovered  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !     The  old  illusion  of  the  medieval  empiri 

"  Not  so.  But  the  medieval  empirics  were  great  discoverers. 
You  sneer  at  Van  llelmont,  who  sought  in  water  the  principle  of 
all  things;  but  Van  llelmont  discovered  in  his  search  those  in- 
visible bodies  called  gases.  Now  the  principle,  of  life  must 
certainly  be  ascribed  to  a  gas.*  And  whatever  is  a  gas,  chemistry 
should  not  despair  of  producing  !  But  I  can  argue  no  longer  now 
— never  can  argue  long  at  a  stretch — we  are  wasting  the  morning  ; 
and  joy!  the  sun  is  up!  See!  Out!  come  out!  out!  and  greet 
the  great  Life-giver  face  to  face." 

I  could  not  resist  the  young  man's  invitation.  In  a  few  minutes 
we  were  in  the  quiet  lane  under  the  glinting  chestnut-trees. 
Margrave  was  chanting,  low,  a  wild  tune — words  in  a  strange 
language. 

"  What  words  are  those!  no  European  language,  I  think;  for  1 
know  a  little  of  most  of  the  languages  which  are  spoken  in  our 
quarter  of  the  globe,  at  least  by  its  more  civilized  races." 

"  Civilized  races  !  What  is  civilization  I  Those  words  were 
uttered  by  men  who  founded  empires  when  Europe  itself  was  not 
civilized  !  Hush,  is  it  not  a  grand  old  air  ?  "  and  lifting  his  eyes 
towards  the  sun,  he  gave  vent  to  a  voice  clear  and  deep  as  a  mighty 
bell!  The  air  was  grand — the  words  had  a  sonorous  swell  that 
suited  it,  and  they  seemed  to  me  jubilant  and  yet  solemn.  lie 
stopped  abruptly,  as  a  path  from  the  lane  had  led  us  into  the  fields, 
already  half-bathed  in  sunlight — dews  glittering  on  the  hedge- 
row*;. 

"  Your  song,"  said  I,  "would  go  well  with  the  clash  of  cymbals 
or  the  peal  of  the  organ.  1  am  no  judge  of  melody,  but  this 
strikes  me  as  that  of  a  religious  hymn." 

"  I  compliment  you  oh  the  guess.    It  is  a  Persian  fire-worship,- 

*  According  to  the  views  we  have  mentioned,  we  must  ascribe  life  to  a  gas, 
tli.n  is,  to  an  aeriform  body. — Liebig,  Organic  Chemistry,  Flavian's  transla- 
tion, p.  JO  J. 


86  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

per'8  hymn  to  the  sun.  The  dialect  is  very  different  from  modern 
Persian.  Cyras  the  Great  might  have  chanted  it  on  his  march 
upon  Babylon." 

••  And  where  did  you  learn  it  1  " 

"In  Persia  itself/' 

"  Yon  have  traveled  much — learned  much — and  are  so  young  and 
so  fresh.  Is  it  an  impertinent  question  if  I  ask  whether  your 
parents  are  yet  living,  or  are  you  wholly  lord  of  yourself?  " 

"  Thank  you  for  the  question — pray  make  my  answer  known  in 
the  rown.     Parents  I  nave  not — never  had." 

"  Never  had  parents  !  " 

"  Well,  I  ought  rather  to  say  that  no  parents  ever  owned  me.  I 
am  a  natural  son — a  vagabond — a  nobody.  When  I  came  of  age 
I  received  an  anonymous  letter,  informing  me  that  a  sum — I  need 
not  say  what — but  more  than  enough  for  all  I  need,  was  lodged  at 
an  English  banker's  in  my  name ;  that  my  mother  had  died  in  my 
infancy ;  that  my  father  was  also  dead — but  recently  ;  that  as  I 
was  a  child  of  love,  and  he  was  unwilling  that  the  secret  of  my 
birth  should  ever  be  traced,  he  had  provided  for  me,  not  by  will, 
but  in  his  life,  by  a  sum  consigned  to  the  trust  of  the  friend  who 
now  wrote  to  me ;  I  need  give  myself  no  trouble  to  learn  more ; 
faith,  I  never  did.  I  am  young,  healthy,  rich — yes,  rich  !  Now 
you  know  all,  and  you  had  better  tell  it,  that  I  may  win  no  man's 
courtesy  and  no  maiden's  love  upon  false  pretences.  I  have  not 
even  a  right,  you  see,  to  the  name  I  bear.  Hist !  let  me  catch 
that  squirrel." 

With  what  a  panther-like  bound  he  sprang!  The  squirrel 
eluded  his  grasp  and  was  up  the  oak-tree;  in  a  moment  he  was  up 
the  oak-tree  too.  In  amazement  I  saw  him  rising  from  bough  to 
bough  ;  saw  his  bright  eyes  and  glittering  teeth  through  the  green 
leaves;  presently  I  heard  the  sharp,  piteous  cry  of  the  squirrel — 
echoed  by  the  youth's  merry  laugh — and  down,  through  that  maze 
of  green,  Margrave  came,  dropping  on  the  grass  and  bounding  up 
as  mercury  might  have  bounded  with  his  wings  at  his  heels. 

"  i  have  caught  him — what  pretty  brown  eyes  !  " 

.Suddenly  the  gay  expression  of  his  face  changed  to  that  of  a 
savage;  the  squirrel  had  wrenched  itself  half  loose  and  bitten  him. 
The  poor  brute  I  In  an  instant  his  neck  was  wrung — its  body 
dashed  on  the  ground  ;  and  that  fair  young  creature,  every  feature 
quivering  with  rage,  was  stamping  his  foot  on  his  victim  again 
and  again  !  It  was  horrible.  I  caught  him  by  the  arm  indignant- 
ly, lie  turned  round  on  me  like  a  wild  beast  disturbed  from  its 
prey — his  teeth  set,  his  hand  lifted,  his  eyes  like  balls  of  fire. 

"  Shame!  "  said  I,  calmly  ;  "  shame  on  you  !  " 

He  continued  to  gaze  on  me  a  moment  or  so — his  eye  glaring, 
his  breath  panting — and  then,  as  if  mastering  himself  with  an  in- 
voluntary effort,  his  arm  dropped  to  his  side,  and  he  said,  quite 
humbly,  "  I  beg  your  pardon ;    indeed  I  do.    I  was  beside  myself 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  87 

for  a  moment ;  1  cannot  bear  pain ;  "  and  ho  looked  in  deep  com- 
passion for  himself  at  Ids  wounded  hand;  "  Venomous  brute  !  " 
And  lie  stamped  again  on  the  body  of  the  squirrel,  already  crushed 
ohi  of  shape. 

1  moved  away  in  disgust,  and  walked  on. 

But  presently  I  felt  my  arm  softly  drawn  aside,  and  a  voice,  . 
dulcet  as  the  coo  of  a  dove,  stole  its  way  into  my  ears.  There 
was  no  resisting  the  charm  with  which  this  extraordinary  mortal 
could  fascinate  even  the  hard  and  the  cold;  nor  them,  perhaps, 
the  least.  For  as  you  see  in  extreme  old  age,  when  the  heart 
seems  to  have  shrunk  into  itself,  and  to  leave,  hut  meagre  and 
nipped  affections  for  the  nearesl  relations,  if  grown  up,  the  indurated 
egotism  softens  at  once  toward  a  playful  child;  or  as  you  see  in 
middle  life  some  misanthrope,  whose  nature  has  been  soured  by 
wrong  and  sorrow,  shrink  IVom  his  own  species,  yet  make  friends 
with  inferior  races,  and  respond  to  the  caress  of  a  dog — so,  for  the 
worldling  or  the  cynic,  there  was  an  attraction  in  the  freshness  of 
this  joyous  favorite  of  nature; — an  attraction  like  that  of  a  beau- 
tiful child,  spoilt  and  wayward,  or  of  a  graceful  animal,  half  docile, 
half  tierce. 

■•  But,"  said  I, with  a  smile, as  I  felt  all  displeasure  gone,  "such 
indulgence  of  passion  for  such  a  trifle  is  surely  unworthy  a  student 
of  philosophy." 

"  Trifle,"  lie  said  dolorously.  "  But  I  tell  you  it  is  pain;  pain 
is  no  trifle.     I  suffer.     Look  !  " 

1  looked  at  the  hand,  which  I  took  in  mine.  The  bite  no  doubt 
had  been  sharp;  but  the  hand  that  lay  in  my  own  was  thai  which 
the  Greek  sculptor  gives  to  a  gladiator;  not  large  (the  extremities 
are  never  large  in  a  person  whose  strength  comes  from  the  just 
proportion  of  all  the  members,  rather  than  the  factitious  and  partial 
force  which  continued  muscular  exertion  will  give  to  one  part  of 
the  frame,  to  the  comparative  weakening  of  the  rest),  but  with  the 
firm-knit  joints,  the  solid  fingers,  the  finished  nails,  the  massive 
palm,  the  supple  polished  skin  in  which  we  recognize  what  nature 
designs  the  human  hand  to  he — the  skilled,  swift,  mighty  doer  of 
all  those  marvels  which  win  Nature  herself  from  the  wilderness. 

"  It  is  strange."  said  I.  thoughtfully  ;  "  but  your  susceptibility 
to  suffering  confirms  my  opinion,  which  is  different  from  the  popu- 
lar belief,  viz  :  that  pain  is  most  acutely  felt  by  those  in  whom  the 
animal  organization  being  perfect,  ami  the  sense  of  vitality  ex- 
quisitely keen,  every  injury  or  lesion  finds  the  whole  system  rise, 
as  it  were,  td  repel  the  mischief  and  commit  conscioui 

of  it  to  all  those  nerves  which  are  the  sentinels  to  the  garrison  of 
life.  Yet  my  theory  is  scarcely  borne  out  by  general  fact.  The 
Indian  savages  must  have  a  health  as  perfect  as  yours  ;   a  nervous 

system  as  fine.     Witness  their  marvelous  accuracy  of  ear.  of  eye. 

■  ■nt,  probably  also  Of  tOUCh,  yel  they  are  indifferent  to  physical 
pain  ;  or  must  1  mortify  your  pride  by  saying  that  they  Lave  some 


8S  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

moral  quality  defective  in  you  which  enables  them  to  rise  superior 
to  it." 

"The  Indian  savages,"  said  Margrave,  sullenly,  "have  not  a 
health  as  perfect  as  mine,  and  ill  what  you  call  vitality — the  bliss 
ful  consciousness  of  life — they  are  as  sticks  and  stones  compared 

to   llio." 

"How  do  you  know"?  " 

"  Because  I  have  lived  with  them.  It  is  a  fallacy  to  suppose 
that  I  lie  savage  has  a  health  superior  to  that  of  the  civilized  man — 
if  the  civilized  man  be  but  temperate, — and  even  if  not,  he  has  a 
stamina  that  cau  resist  for  years  what  would  destroy  the  savage  in 
a  month.  As  to  their  tine  perceptions  of  sense,  such  do  not  come 
from  exquisite  equilibrium  of  system,  but  are  hereditary  attributes 
transmitted  from  race  to  race,  and  strengthened  by  training  from 
infancy.  But  is  a  pointer  stronger  and  healthier  than  a  mastitf, 
hecar.se  the  pointer  through  long  descent  and  early  teaching  creeps 
stealthily  to  his  game  and  stands  to  it  motionless  f  I  will  talk  of 
this  later  ;  now  1  suffer  !     Pain,  pain  !     Has  life  any  ill  but  pain  1  " 

It  so  happened  that  I  had  about  me  some  roots  of 'the  white  lily, 
which  I  meant,  before  returning  home,  to  leave  with  a  patient 
suffering  from  one  of  those  acute  local  inflammations,  in  which  that 
simple  remedy  often  affords  great  relief.  I  cut  up  one  of  these 
roots,  and  bound  the  cooling  leaves  to  the  wounded  hand  with  my 
handkerchief. 

"There,"  said  I.  "Fortunately,  if  you  fcJel  pain  more  sensibly 
than  others,  you  will  recover  from  it  more  quickly." 

And  in  a  lew  minutes  my  companion  felt  perfectly  relieved,  and 
poured  out  his  gratitude  with  an  extravagance  of  expression  and  a 
beaming  delight  of  countenance  which  positively  touched  me. 

"  I  almost  feel,"  said  I,"  as  I  do  when  I  have  stilled  an  infant's 
wailing,  and  restored  it  smiling  to  its  mother's  breast." 

"  You  have  done  so.  I  am  an  infant,  and  Nature  is  my  mother. 
Oh,  to  be  restored  to  the  full  joy  of  life,  the  scent  of  wild  flowers, 
the  song  of  birds,  and  this  air — summer  air — summer  air!  " 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  at  that  moment,  looking  at  him  and 
hearing  him,  I  rejoiced  that  Lilian  was  not  at  L . 

"  But  I  came  out  to  bathe.    Can  we  not  bathe  in  that  stream"'?  " 

"  No.  You  would  derange  the  bandage  round  your  hand  ;  and 
for  all  bodily  ills,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  there  is  nothing 
like  leaving  Nature  at  rest  the  moment  we  have  hit  on  the  means 
which  assist  her  own  efforts  at  cure." 

"  I  obey,  then,  but  I  do  so  love  the  water." 

'•  You  swim,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Ask  the  fish  if  it  swim.  Ask  the  fish  if  it  can  escape  me  !  I 
delight  to  dive  down — down;  to  plunge  after  the  startled  trout,  as 
an  otter  does  ;  and  then  to  get  among  those  cool,  fragrant  reeds 
and  bulrushes,  or  the  forest  of  emerald  weed  which  one  sometimes 
finds  waving  under  clear  rivers.     Man  !  man  !  could  you  live  but 


A    STRANGB    STORY.  89 

an  hour  of  my  life  you  would  know  how  horrible  a  thing  it  is  to 
die ! " 

'*Yet  the  dying  do  not  think  so;  they  pass  away  calm  and 
smiling,  as  you  will  one  day." 

"I — I!  die  one  day — die!"  and  he  sank  on  the  grass,  and 
buried  his  face  among  the  herbage,  sobbing  aloud. 

Before  I  could  get  through  half  a  dozen  words,  meant  to  soothe, 
he  had  once  more  hounded  up,  dashed  I  he  tears  from  his  eyes,  and 
was  again  singing  some  wild,  barbaric  chant.  I  did  not  disturb 
him;  in  fact  1  sunn  grew  absorbed  in  my  own  meditations  on  the 
singular  nature,  so  wayward,  so  impulsive,  which  had  forced  in- 
timacy on  a  man  so  grave  and  practical  as  myself. 

1  was  puzzled  how  to  reconcile  so  passionate  a  childishness,  so 
undisciplined  a  want  of  self-control,  with  an  experience  of  mankind 
so  extended  by  travel,  with  an  education,  desultory  arid  irregular 
indeed,  but  which  must  have  been  at  sonic  lime  or  other  familiar- 
ized to  severe  reasonings  and  laborious  studies.  There  seemed  to 
be  wanting  in  him  that  mysterious  something  which  is  needed  to 
keep  our  faculties,  however  severally  brilliant, harmoniously  linked 
together — as  the  string  by  which  a  child  mechanically  binds  the 
wild  flowers  it  gathers,  shaping  them  at  choice  into  the  garland  or 
the  chain. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

My  intercourse  with  Margrave  grew  habitual  and  familiar.  \'u- 
came  to  my  house  every  morning  before  sunrise  ;  in  the  evenings 
we  were  again  brought  together:  sometimes  in  the  houses  to 
which  we  were  both  invited,  sometimes  at  his  hotel,  sometimes  in 
my  own  home. 

Nothing  more  perplexed  me  than  his  aspect  of  extreme  youth- 
fulness,  contrasted  with  the  extent  of  Ihe  travels,  which,  if  he  were 
to  be  believed,  had  left  lit  lie  of  the  known  world  unexplored.  One 
day  I  asked  him,  bluntly,  how  old  lie  was. 

"  How  old  do  1  look  ?      How  old  should  you  suppose  me  to  be  .'" 

"  I  should  have  guessed  you  to  be  about  twenty,  till  you  spoke  of 
having  come  of  age  some  years  ago." 

"  Is  it  a  sign  of  longevity  when  a  man  looks  much  younger  than 
he  is?" 

"Conjoined  with  other  signs,  certainly' !  " 

"  Have  I  the  other  signs  >." 

"Yes,  a  magnificent,  perhaps  matchless,  constitutional  organ- 
ization, lint  you  have  evaded  my  question  as  to  your  age  ;  was  it 
an  impertinence  to  put  it?" 

"  No.     1  came  of  age — let  me  see — three  years  ago." 


90  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  So  long  since  1     Is  it  possible  ?     I  wish  I  had  your  secret !  " 

"  Secret !     What  secret  ?  " 

"  The  secret  of  preserving  so  much  of  boyish  freshness  in'  the 
wear  and  tear  of  man-like  passions  and  man-like  thoughts." 

"  You  are  still  young  yourself — under  forty  1 " 

"  Oh  yes  !  some  years  under  forty." 

"  And  Nature  gave  you  a  much  grander  frame  and  a  much  finer 
symmetry  of  feature  than  she  gave  to  me." 
"  "  Pood  !  pooh  !     You  have  the  beauty  that  must  charm  the  eyes 
of  woman,  and  that  beauty  in  its  sunny  forenoon  of  youth.     Happy 
man  !  if  you  love — and  wish  to  be  sure  that  you  are  loved  again." 

"  What  you  call  love — the  unhealthy  sentiment,  the  feverish 
folly — I  left  behind  me,  I  think  forever,  when — •" 

"  Ay,  indeed — when  1" 

"  I  came  of^ge  !" 

"  Hoary  cynic  !  and  you  despise  love  !  So  did  I  once.  Your 
time  may  come." 

"  I  think  not.  Does  any  animal,  except  man,  love  its  fellow 
she-animal  as  man  loves  woman  ?  " 

"  As  man  loves  woman  ?     No,  I  suppose  not." 

"  And  why  should  the  subject-animals  be  wiser  than  their  king  1 
But,  to  return — you  would  like  to  have  my  youth  and  my  careless 
enjoyment  of  youth  ] " 

"  Can  you  ask — who  would  not  1 "  Margrave  looked  at  me  for 
a  m6ment  with  unusual  seriousness,  and  then,  in  the  abrupt  changes 
common  to  his  capricious  temperament,  began  to  sing  softly  one  of 
his  barbaric  chants— a  chant  different  from  any  I  had  heard  him 
sing  before — made  either  by  the  modulation  of  his  voice  or  the 
nature  of  the  tune — so  sweet  that,  little  as  music  generally  affected 
mej  this  thrilled  to  my  very  heart's  core.  I  drew  closer  and  closer 
to  him,  and  murmured  when  he  paused, 

"  Is  not  that  a  love-song?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  is  the  song  by  which  the  serpent-charmer 
charms  the  serpent." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Increased  intimacy  with  my  new  acquaintance  did  not  diminish 
the  charm  of  his  society,  though  it  brought  to  light  some  startling 
defects,  both  in  his  mental  and  moral  organization.  I  have  before 
said  that  his  knowledge,  though  it  had  swept  over  a  wide  circuit 
and  dipped  into  curious,  unfrequented  recesses,  was  desultory,  and 
erratic.  It  certainly  was  not  that  knowledge,  sustained  and  as- 
piring, which  the  poet  assures  is  "  the  wing  on  which  we  mount 
to  heaven."     So,  in  his  faculties  themselves  there  were  singular 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  91 

inequalities,  ov  contradictions.  His  power  of  memory  in  some 
things  seemed  prodigious ;  bul  when  examined  it  was  seldom  ac- 
curate; it  could  apprehend,  bul  did  not  hold  together  with  a 
binding  grasp,  what  metaphysicians  call  "complex  ideas.*'  He 
thus  seemed  unable  to  put  it  to  any  steadfast  purpose  in  the 
sciences  of  which  it  retained,  vaguely  and  loosely,  many  recondite 
principles.  For  the  sublime  and  beautiful  in  literature  he  had  no 
taste  whatever.  A  passionate  lover  of  nature,  his  imagination  had 
no  response  to  the  arts  by  which  nature  is  expressed  or  idealized  ; 
wholly  unaffected  by  poetry  or  painting.  Of  the  fine  arts,  music 
alone  attracted  and  pleased  him.  His  conversation  was  often 
imminently  suggestive,  touching  on  much,  whether  in  books  or 
mankind,  that  set  one  thinking;  but  I  never  remember  him  to 
have  uttered  any  of  those  lofty  or  tender  sentiments  winch  form 
the  connecting  links  between  youth  and  genius.  For  if  poets  sing 
to  the  young,  and  the  young  hail  their  own  interpreters  in  poets, 
it  is  because  the  tendency  of  both  is  to  idolize  the  realities  of  life, 
finding  everywhere  in  the  Real  a  something  that  is  noble  or  fair, 
and  making  the  fair  yet  fairer,  and  the  noble  nobler  still. 

In  Margrave's  character  there  seemed  no  special  vices,  no 
special  virtues  ;  but  a  wonderful  vivacity,  joybusness,  animal  good- 
humor.  He  was  singularly  temperate,  having  a  dislike  to  wine, 
perhaps  from  that  purity  of  taste  which  belongs  to  health  abso- 
lutely perfect.  No  healthful  child  likes  alcohols,  no  animal,  except 
man,  prefers  wine  to  water. 

But  his  main  moral  defect  seemed  tome,  in  a  want  of  sympathy, 
even  where  he  professed  attachment.  He  who  could  feel  so  acutely 
for  himself,  be  unmanned  at  the  bite  of  a  squirrel,  and  sob  at  the 
thought  that  he  should  one  day  die.  was  as  callous  to  the  sufferings 
of  another  as  a  deer  who  deserts  and  butts  from  him  a  wounded 
comrade. 

I  give  an  instance  of  this  hardness  of  heart  where  I  should  have 
leasl  expected  to  find  it  in  him. 

He  had  met  and  joined  me  as  I  was  walking  to  visit  a  patient 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  when  we  fell  in  with  a  group  of 
children,  just  let  loose  for  an  hour  or  two  from  their  day-school. 
Some  of  these  children  joyously  recognized  him  as  having  played 
with  them  at  their  homes;  they  ran  up  to  him,  and  he  seemed  as 
glad  as  themselves  at  the  meeting. 

He  suffered  them  to  drag  him  along  with  them,  and  became  as 
merry  and  sportive  as  the  youngest  of  the  troop. 

"Well,"  said  I,  laughing,  "  if  you  are  going  to  play  at  Leap-frog, 
pray  don't  let  it  be  on  the.  high  road,  or  you  will  be  run  over  by 
carts  and  draymen;  see  thai  meadow  just  in  front  to  the  left — off 
witli  you  there  !  " 

"With  all  my  heart."  cried  Margrave,  "while  you  pay  your 
visit.     Conic  along,  boys." 


92  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

A  little  urchin,  not  above  six  years  old,  but  who  was  lame,  began 
to  cry,  he  could  not  run — he  should  be  left  behind. 

Margrave  stopped.  "  Climb  on  my  shoulder,  little  one,  and  I'll 
be  your  horse." 

The  child  dried  its  tears,  and  delightfully  obeyed., 

"  Certainly,"  said  I,  to  myself,  "  Margrave,  after  all,  must  have 
a  nature  as  gentle  as  it  is  simple.  What  other-  .young  man,  so 
courted  by  all  the  allurements  that  steal  innocence  from  pleasure, 
would  stop  in  the  thoroughfares  to  play  with  children  ?  " 

The  thought  had  scarcely  passed  through  my  mind  when  I 
heard  a  scream  of  agony.  Margrave  had  leaped  the  railing  that 
divided  the  meadow  from  the  road,  and  in  so  doing  the  poor  child, 
perched  on  his  shoulder,  had,  perhaps  from  surprise  or  fright, 
loosened  its  hold,  and  fallen  heavily.  Its  cries  were  piteous.  Mar- 
grave clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears — uttered  an  exclamation  of 
anger — and  not  even  stopping  to  lift  up  the  boy,  or  examine 
what  the  hurt  was,  called  to  the  other  children  to  come  on,  and 
was  soon  rolling  with  them  on  the  grass,  and  pelting  thjem  with 
daisies.  When  I  came  up,  oidy  one  child  remained  by  the  suf- 
ferer— its  little  brother,  a  year  older  than  itself.  The  child  had 
fallen  on  its  arm,  which  was  not  broken,  but  violently  contused. 
The  pain  must  have  been  intense.  I  carried  the  child  to  its  home, 
and  had  to  remain  there  some  time.  I  did  not  see  Margrave  till 
the  next  morning,  when  he  then  called.  I  felt  so  indignant  that  I 
could  scarcely  speak  to  him.  When  at  last  I  rebuked  him  for  his 
inhumanity,  he  seemed  surprised ;  with  difficulty  remembered  the 
circumstance,  and  then  merely  said — as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
confession  in  the  world — 

"  Oh,  nothing  so  discordant  as  a  child's  wail.  1  hate  discords. 
I  am  pleased  with  the  company  of  children ;  but  they  must  be 
children  who  laugh  and  play.  Well!  why  do  you  look  at  me  in 
that  way  1     What  have  I  said  to  shock  you  !  " 

"  Shock  me — you  shock  manhood  itself!  Go  ;  I  caa't  talk  to 
you  now.     I  am  busy." 

But  he  did  not  go ;  and  his  voice  was  so  sweet,  and  his  ways 
so  winning,  that  disgust  insensibly  melted  into  that  sort  of  for- 
giveness one  accords  (let  me  repeat  the  illustration)  to  the  deer 
that  forsakes  its  comrade.  The  poor  thing  knows  no  better.  And 
what  a  graceful,  beautiful  thing  this  wTas  ! 

The  fascination — I  can  give  it  no  other  name — which  Margrave 
exercised  was  not  confined  to  me ;  it  was  universal — old,  young, 
high,  low,  man,  woman,  child,  all  felt  it.  Never  in  Low  Town 
had  stranger,  even  the  most  distinguished  by  fame,  met  with  a 
reception  so  cordial — so  flattering.  His  frank  confession  that  he 
was  a  natural  son,  far  from  being  to  his  injury,  served  to  interest 
people  more  in  him,  and  to  prevent  all  those  inquiries  in  regard  to 
his  connections  and  antecedents,  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
afloat.    To  be  sure,  he  was  evidently  rich ;  at  least  he  had  plenty 


A    STRANOE    STORY.  93 

of  money.  He  lived  in  the  best  rooms  of  the  principal  hotel ;  was 
very  hospitable;  entertained  the  families  with  whom  he  had  grown 
intimate;  made  them  bring  their  children — music  and  dancing 
after  dinner.     Among  the  houses   in  which  lie  had  established 

familiar  acquaintance  was  that  of  the  mayor  of  the  town,  who  had 
bought  Dr.  Lloyd's  collection  of  subjects  in  natural  history.  To 
thai  collection  the  mayor  had  added  largely  by  a  very  recent 
purchase.  He  had  arranged  these  various  specimens,  which  his 
last  acquisitions  had  enriched  by  the  interesting  carcases  of  an 
elephant  and  a  hippopotamus,  in  a  large  wooden  building  con- 
tiguous to  his  dwelling,and  which  had  been  constructed  by  a  former 
rietor  (a  retired  foxdmnter)  as  a  riding  house.  And  being  a 
man  who  much  affected  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  he  proposed 
to  open  this  museum  to  the  admiration  of  the  general  public,  and 
at  his  death  So  bequeath  it  to  the  Athenaeum  or  Literary  Institute 
of  his  native  town.    Margrave;  seconded  by  the  influence  of  the 

mayor's  daughters,  had  scarcely  been    three  days  at    L before 

he  had  persuaded  this  excellent  and  public-spirited  functionary  to 
inaugurate  the  opening  of  his  museum  by  the  papular  ceremony 
of  a,  hall.  A  temporary  corridor  should  unite  the  drawing- 
rooms,  which  were  on  the  ground-floor,  with  the  building  that 
contained  the  collection  ;  and  thus  the  fete  would  he  elevated 
above  the  frivolous  character  of  a  fashionable  amusement,  and 
consecrated  to  the  solemnization  of  an  intellectual  institute. 
Dazzled  by  the  brilliancy  of  this  idea,  the  mayor  announced  his 
intention  to  give  a  ball  that  should  include  the  surrounding  neigh- 
borhood, and  he  worthy,  in  all  expensive  respects,  of  the  dignity 
of  himself  and  the  occasion.  A  night  had  been  fixed  for  the  ball — 
a  night  that  became,  memorable  indeed  to  me!  The  entertain- 
ment was  anticipated  with  a  lively  interest,  in  which  even  the  Hill 
condescended  to  share.  The  Hill  did  not  much  patronize  mayors 
in  general;  but  when  a  mayor  gaTKG  a  ball  for  a  purpose  so  patri- 
otic, and  on  a  scale  so  splendid,  the  Hill  literally  acknowledged 
that  Commerce  was,  on  the  whole,  a  thing  which  the  Eminence 
might,  now  and  then,  condescend  to  acknowledge  without  abso- 
lutely derogating  from  the  rank  which  Providence  had  assigned 
to  it  among  the  High  Places  of  earth.  Accordingly,  the  Hill  was 
permitted  by  its  Queen  to  honor  the  first  magistrate  of  Low  Town 
by  a  promise  to  attend  his  ball.  Now,  as  ibis  festivity  had  ori- 
ginated in  the  suggestion  of  Margrave,  so,  by  a  natural  association 
of  ideas,  every  one,  in  talking  of  the  ball,  talked  also  of  .Margrave. 
The  Hill  had  at  first  affected  to  ignore  a  stranger  whose  debut 
had  been  made  in  the  mercantile  circle  of  Low  Town.  But  the 
Queen  of  the1  Hill  now  said,  sententiously,  "  TftiB  new  man  in  a 
few  days  has  become  a  Celebrity.  It  is  the  policy  of  the  'Hill  to 
adopt  Celebrities,  if  the  Celebrities  pay  respect  to  the  Proprieties. 
Dr.  Fen  wick  is  requested  to  procure  Mr.  Margrave  the  advantage 
of  being  known  to  the  Hill." 


\ 

94  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

I  found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  persuade  Margrave  to  accept 
the  Hill's  condescending  overture.  He  seemed  to  have  a  dislike 
to  all  societies  pretending  to  aristocratic  distinction — a  dislike 
expressed  with  a  fierceness  so  unwonted  that  it  made  one  suppose 
he  had  at  some  time  or  other  been  subjected  to  mortification  by 
the  supercilious  airs  that  blow  upon  heights  so  elevated.  How- 
ever, he  yielded  to  my  instances,  and  accompanied  me  one  evening 
to  Mrs.  Poyntz's  house.  The  Hill  was  encamped  there  for  the 
occasion.  Mrs.  Poyntz  was  exceedingly  civil  to  him,  and  after  a 
few  commonplace  speeches,  hearing  that  he  was  fond  of  music, 
consigned  him  to  the  caressing  care  of  Miss  Brabazon,  who  was 
at  the  head  of  the  musical  department  in  the  Queen  of  the  Hill's 
administration. 

Mrs.  Poyntz  retired  to  her  favorite  seat  near  the  window,  invi- 
ting me  to  sit  beside  her;  and  while  she  knitted  in  silence,  in 
silence  my  eye  glanced  toward  Margrave  in  the  midst  of  the  group 
assembled  round  the  piano. 

Whether  he  was  in  more  than  usually  high  spirits,  or  whether 
he  was  actuated  by  a  malign  and  impish  desire  to  upset  the  es- 
tablished laws  of  decorum  by  which  the  gayeties  of  the  Hill  were 
habitually  subdued  into  a  serene  and  somewhat  pensive  pleasant- 
ness, I  know  not;  but  it  was  not  many  minutes  before  the  orderly 
aspect  of  the  place  was  grotesquely  changed. 

Miss  Brabazon  having  come  to  the  close  of  a  complicated  and 
dreary  sonata,  I  heard  Margrave  abruptly  ask  her  if  she  could  play 
the  Tarantella,  that  famous  Xeopolitan  air  which  is  founded  on 
the  legendary  belief  that  the  bite  of  the  tarantula  excites  an  irre- 
sistible desire  to  dance.  On  that  high-bred  spinster's  confession 
that  she  was  ignorant  of  the  air,  and  had  not  even  heard  of  the 
legend,  Margrave  said,  "Let  me  play  it  to  you,  with  variations  of 
my  own."  Miss  Brabazon  graciously  yielded  her  place  at  the 
instrument.  Margrave  seated  himself — there  was  great  curiosity 
to  hear  his  performance.  Margrave's  fingers  rushed  over  the  keys, 
and  there  was  a  general  start,  the  prelude  was  so  unlike  any 
known  combination  of  harmonious  sounds.  Then  he  began  a 
chant — song  I  can  scarcely  call  it — words  certainly  not  in  Italian, 
perhaps  in  some  uncivilized  tongue,  perhaps  in  impromptu  gib- 
berish. And  the  torture  of  the  instrument  now  commenced  in 
good  earnest :  it  shrieked,  it  groaned  :  wilder  and  noisier.  Bee- 
thoven's ^Storm,  roused  by  the  fell  touch  of  a  German  pianist,  were 
mild  in  comparison;  and  the  mighty  voice,  dominating  the  an- 
guish of  the  cracking  keys,  had  the,  full  diapason  of  a  chorus. 
Certainly  I  amuno  judge  of  music,  but  to  my  ear  the  discord  was 
terrific — to  the  ears  of  better  informed  amateurs  it  seemed  ravish- 
ing. All  were  spell-bound  ;  even  Mrs.  Poyntz  paused  from  her 
knitting,  as  the  Fates -paused  from  their  web  at  the  lyre  of  Or- 
pheus. To  this  breathless  delight,  however,  soon  succeeded  a 
general  desire  for  movement.     To  my  amazement,  I  beheld  these 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  95 

former  matrons  and  sober  fathers  of  families  forming  themselves, 
into  a  dance,  turbulent  as  a  children's  hall  at  Christmas.  And 
when,  suddenly  desisting  from  his  music,  Margrave  started  up 
caught  the  skeleton  band  of  lean  Miss:  Brabazon,  and  whirled  bar 
into  the  centre  of  the  dance,  I  could  have  fancied  myself  at  a 
witch's  sabhat.  My  eye  turned  in  scandalized  alarm  toward 
Mrs.  Poyntz.  That  great  creature  seemed  as  much  astounded  as 
ni)  self.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  scene  in  a  stare  of  positive 
stupor.  For  the  first  time,  no  doubt,  in  her  life,  she  was  over- 
come, deposed,  dethroned.  The  awe  of  her  presence  was  literally 
whirled  away.  The  dance  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
Darting  from  the  galvanized  mummy  whom  he  had  selected  as  his 
partner,  Margrave  shot  to  Mrs.  Poyntz's  side,  and  said,  "Ten. 
thousand  pardons  for  quitting  you  so  soon,  hut  the  clock  warns  me 
that  I  have  an  engagement  elsewhere."  In  another  moment  he 
was  gone. 

The  dance  halted,  people  seemed  slowly  returning  to  their 
senses,  looking  at  each  other  bashfully  and  ashamed. 

"I'could  not  help  it,  dear,"  sighed  Miss  Brabazon  at  last,  sink- 
ing into  a  chair,  and  casting  her  deprecating,  fainting  eyes  upon 
the  hostess. 

"It  is  witchcraft,"  said  fat  Mrs.  Bruce,  wiping  her  forehead.. 

"  Witchcraft !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Poyntz,  "it  does  inded  look  like  it. 
An  amazing  and  portentous  exhibition  of  animal  spirits,  and  not  to 
be  endured  by  the  Proprieties.  Where  on  earth  can  that  young 
savage  have  come  from  ?  " 

"  From  savage  lands,"  said  I.     "  So  he  says." 

"  Do  not  bring  him  here  again,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz.  "  He  would 
soon  turn  the  Hill  topsy-turvy.  But  how  charming!  I  should 
like  to  see  more  of  him,"  she  added  in  an  under  voice,  "if  he  would 
call  on  me  some  morning,  and  not  in  the  presence  of  those  for  whose 
Proprieties  1  am  responsible.  Jane  must  be  out  in  her  ride  will; 
the  Colonel." 

Margrave  never  again  attended  the  patrician  festivities  of  rhe 
Hill.  Imitations  were  poured  upon  him,  especially  by  Miss 
Brabazon  and  the  other  old  maids,  but  in  vain. 

"  Those  people,"  said  he,  "  are  too  tame  and  civilized  for  me  ; 
and  so  few  young  persons  among  them.  Even  that  girl  Jane  is 
only  young  on  the  surface;  inside,  as  old  as  the  World  or  her 
mother.     1  like  youth,  real  youth — 1  am  young,   1  am  young  !  " 

And  indeed,  I  observed  that  he  would  attach  himself  to  some 
young  person,  often  to  some  child,  as  if  with  cordial  and  special 
favor,  yet  Air  not  more  than  an  hour  or  so,  never  distinguishing 
them  by  the  same  preference  when  he  next  met  them.  I  made  the 
remark  to  him,  in  rebuke  of  his  fickleness,  one  evening  when  he 
had  found  nie  at  work  on  my  ambitious  book,  reducing  to  rule  and 
measure  the  Laws  of  Nature. 

"  It  is  not  fickleness,"  said  he,  "  it  is  necessity." 


96  a  strAnge  story. 

"  Necessity  !     Explain  yourself." 

"  I  seek  1o  find  what  I  have  not  found,"  said  he;  "  it  is  my  ne- 
cessity to  seek  it,  and  among  the  young- ;  and  disappointed  in  one,  I 
turn  to  the  other.    Necessity  again.     But  find  it  as  last  I  must." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  what  the  young  usually  seek  in  the  young; 
and  if,  as  you  said  the  other  day,  you  have  left  love  behind  you, 
you  now  wander  back;  to  re-find  it." 

"  Tush  !  If  I  may  judge  by  the  talk  of  young  fools,  love  may 
be  found  every  day  by  him  who  looks  oilt  for  it,  What  I  seek  is 
among  the  rarest  of  all  discoveries.  You  might  aid  me  to  find  it, 
and  in  so  doing  aid  yourself  to  a  knowledge  far  beyond  all  that 
your  formal  experiments  can  bestow." 

"  Prove  your  words,  and  command  my  services,"  said  I,  smiling 
somewhat  disdainfully. 

"You  told  me  that  you  had  examined  into  the  alleged 
phenomena  of  animal  magnetism,  and  proved  some  persons  who 
pretend  to  the  gift  which  the  Scotojb  call  second  sight  to  be 
bungling  imposters.  You  were  right.  I  have  seen  the  clairvoy- 
ants who  drive  their  trade  in  this  town  ;  a  common  gipsy  could 
beat  them  in  their  own  calling.  But  your  experience  must  have 
shown  you  that  there  are  certain  temperaments  in  which  the  gift  of 
the  Pythoness  is  stored,  unknown  to  the  possessor,  undetected  by 
the  common  observer ;  but  the  signs  of  which  should  he  as  ap- 
parent to  the  modem  physiologist  as  they  were  to  the  ancient 
priest." 

"  1  at  least,  as  a  physiologist,  am  ignorant  of  the  signs — what 
are  they  ?  " 

"  I  should  despair  of  making  you  comprehend  them  by  mere 
verbal  description.  I  could  guide  your  observation  to  distinguish 
them  unerringly  were  living  subjects  before  us.  But  not  one  in  a 
million  has  the  gift  to  an  extent  available  for  the  purposes  to  which 
the  wise  would  apply  it.  Many  have  imperfect  glimpses  ;  few,  few 
indeed,  the  unveiled,  lucent  sight.  They  who  have  but  the  imper- 
fect glimpses  mislead  and  dupe  the  minds  that  consult  them,  be- 
cause, being  sometimes  marvelously  right*  they  excite  a  credulous 
belief  in  their  general  accuracy  ;  and  as  they  are  but  translators  of 
dreams  in  their  own  brain,  their  assurances  are  no  more  to  be 
trusted  than  are- the  dreams  of  commonplace  sleepers.  But  where 
the  gift  exists  to  perfection,  he  who  knows  how  to  direct  and  to 
profit  by  it  should  be  able  to  discover  all  that  he  desires  to  know 
for  the  guidance  and  preservation  of  his  own  life,  lie  will  be  fore- 
warned of  every  danger,  forearmed  in  the  means  by  which  danger 
is  avoided.  For  the  eye  of  the  true  Pythoness  matter  has  no  ob- 
struction, space  no  confines,  time  no  measurement." 

"  My  dear  Margrave,  you  may  well  say  that  creatures  so  gifted 
are  rare;  and  for  my  part,  I  would  as  soon  search  for  a  unicorn 
as,  to  use  your  affected  expression,  for  a  Pythoness." 

"  Nevertheless,  whenever  there  come  across  the  course  of  your 


A    STRANG E    STORi'.  97 

practice  some  young  creature  to  whom  all  the  evil  of  the  world  is 
as  yet  unknown,  to  whom  the  ordinary  cares  and  duties  of  the 
world  arc  strange  and  unwelcome  :  who  from  the  earliest  dawn  of 
reason  has  loved  to  sit  apart  and  to  muse  ;  before  whose  eves 
visions  pass  unsolicited  ;  who  converses  with  those  who  are  not 
dwellers  on  the  earth,  and  beholds  in  the  space  landscapes  which 
the  earth  does  not  reflect — " 

"Margrave,  Margrave  !  of  whom  do  you  speak  !  " 

"  Whose  frame,  though  exquisitely  sensitive,  has  still  a  health. 
and  a  soundness  in  which  you  recognize  no  disease;  whose  mind 
has  a  truthfulness  that  you  know  cannot  deceive  you,  and  a  simple 
intelligence  too  clear  to  deceive  itself;  who  is  moved  to  a  myslcri- 
ous  degree  by  all  the  varying  aspects  of  external  nature — inno- 
cently joyous,  or  unaccountably  sad; — when,  1  say,  such  n  being 
comes  across  your  experience,  inform  me;  and  the  chances  are 
that  the  true  Pythoness  is  found." 

I  had  listened  with  vague  terror,  and  with  more  than  one  ex- 
clamation of  amazement,  to  descriptions  which  brought  Lilian  Ash- 
leigh  before  me  ;  and  1  now  sat  nude,  bewildered,  breathless, 
gazing  upon  Margrave,  and  rejoicing  that  at  least  Lilian  he  had 
never  seen. 

He  returned  my  own  gaze  steadily,  searchingly,  and  then,  break- 
ing into  a  slight  laugh,  resumed  : 

"  You  call  my  word  'Pythoness'  affected.  I  know  of  no  other. 
My  recollections  of  classic  anecdote  and  history  are  confused  and 
dim  ;  but  somewhere  I  have  read  or  heard  that  the  priests  of 
Delphi  were  accustomed  to  travel  chiefly  into  Thrace  or  Thessaly 
in  search  of  the  virgins  who  might  fitly  administer  their  oracles, 
and  that  the  oracles  gradually  ceased  in  repute  as  the  priests  he- 
came  unable  to  discover  the  organization  requisite  in  the  priestesses, 
and  supplied  by  craft  and  imposture,  or  by  such  imperfect  frag- 
mentary developments  as  belong  now  to  professional  clairvoyants, 
the  gifts  which  Nature  failed  to  afford.  Indeed,  the  demand  was 
one  that  must  have  rapidly  exhausted  so  limited  a  supply.  The 
constant  strain  upon  faculties  so  wearing  to  the  vital  functions  in 
their  relentless  exercise,  under  the  artful  stimulants  by  which  the 
priests  heightened  their  power,  was  mortal,  and  no  Pythoness  ever 
retained  her  life  more  than  three  years  from  the  time  that  her  gift 
was  elaborately  trained  and  developed." 

"  Pooh  !  I  know  of  no  classical  authority  for  the  details  you  so 
confidently  site.  Perhaps  some  such  legions  may  be  found  in  the 
Alexandrian  PlatonistB;  but  those  mystics  are  no  authority  on 
such  a  subject.  After  all,"  I  added,  recovering  from  my  first  sur- 
prise or  awe,  "the  Delphic  oracles  were  proverbially  ambiguous, 
ami  their  responses  might  be  read  either  way;  a  proof  thai  the 
priests  dictated  the  verses,  though  their  arts  on  the  unhappy 
priestess  might  throw  her  into  real  convulsions,  and  the  real  con- 
vulsions, not  the  false  gift,  might  shorten  her  life.  Enough  of  such 
.7 


98  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

idle  subjects  !  Yet  no !  one  question  more.  If  you  found  your 
Pythoness,  what  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  1  Why,  through  her  aid  I  might  discover  the  pro- 
cess of  an  experiment  which  your  practical  Science  would  assist  me 
to  complete." 

"  'Tell  me  of  what  kind  is  your  experiment ;  and  precisely  be- 
cause such  little  science  as  I  possess  is  exclusively  practical,  I  may 
assist  you  without  the  help  of  the  Pythoness." 

Margrave  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  passing  his  hand  several 
times  across  his  forehead,  which  was  a  frequent  gesture  of  his,  and 
then  rising,  he  answered,  in  listless  accents  : 

"  I  cannot  say  more  now,  my  brain  is  fatigued  ;  and  you  are  not 
yet  in  the  right  mood  to  hear  me.  By  the  way,  how  close  and  re- 
served you  are  with  me." 

"How  so?  " 

"  You  never  told  me  that  you  were  engaged  to  be  married.  You 
leave  me,  who  thought  to  have  won  your  friendship,  to  hear  what 
concerns  you  so  intimately  from  a  comparative  stranger." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  That  woman  with  eyes  that  pry  and  lips  that  scheme,  to  whose 
house  you  took  me." 

"  Mrs.  Poyntz  !     Is  it  possible  ?.  When  1 " 

"  This  afternoon.  I  met  her  in  the  street — she  stopped  me,  and 
after  some  unmeaning  talk,  asked  '  if  I  had  seen  you  lately  ;  if  I 
did  not  find  you  very  absent  and  distracted  ;  no  wonder — you  were 
in  love.  The  young  lady  was  away  on  a  visit,  and  wooed  by  a 
dangerous  rival.' " 

"  Wooed  by  a  dangerous  rival !  " 

"  Very  rich,  good  looking,  young.  Do  you  fear  him  ?  You  turn 
pale." 

"  I  do  not  fear,  except  so  far  as  he  who  loves  truly,  loves 
humbly,  and  fears  not  that  another  may  be  preferred,  but  that  an- 
other may  be  worthier  of  preference  than  himself.  But  that  Mrs. 
Poyntz  should  tell  you  all  this  does  amaze  me.  Did  she  mention 
the  name  of  the  young  lady  ]  " 

"  Yes ;  Lilian  Ashleigh.  Henceforth  be  more  frank  with  me. 
Who  knows  1     I  may  help  you.     Adieu !  " 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

When  Margrave  had  gone,  I  glanced  at  the  clock — not  yet  nine. 
I  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  Mrs.  Poyntz.  It  was  not  an  evening 
on  which  she  received,  but  doubtless  she  would  see  me.  She  owed 
me  an  explanation.  How  thus  carelessly  divulge  a  secret  she 
had  been  enjoined  to  keep  ?  and  this  rival  of  whom  I  was  ignorant  ? 


A    S'niANOE    STORY.  99 

It  Was  no  longer  a  matter  of  wonder  that  Margrave  should  have 
described  Lilian's  peculiar  idiosyncrasies  in  his  sketch  of  his 
fabulous  Pythoness.  Doubtless,  Mrs.  Poyntz  had,  with  unpardon- 
able levity  of  indiscretion,  revealed  all  of  which  she  disapproved 
in  my  choice.  But  for  what  object  ?  Was  this  her  boasted  friend- 
ship for  me  I  Was  it  consistent  with  the  regard  she  professed  for 
Mrs.  Ashleigh  and  Lilian.'  Occupied  by  these  perplexed  and 
indignant  thoughts,  1  arrived  at  Mrs.  Povntz's  house,  and  was 
admitted  to  her  presence.  She  was  fortunately  alone  ;  her  daughter 
and  "he  Colonel  had  gone  to  some  party  on  the  Hill.  1  would 
not  take  the  hand  she  held  out  to  me  on  entrance;  seated  myself 
in  stern  displeasure,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  inquire  it  she  had 
really  betrayed  to  Mr.  Margrave  the  secret  of  my  engagement  to 
Lilian. 

"  Yes,  Allen  IVmvick  ;  I  have  this  day  told  not  only  Mr.  Mar- 
grave,  but  every  person  I  met  who  is  likely  to  tell  it  to  some  ono 
else,  the  secrel  of  your  engagement  to  Lilian  Ashleigh.  I  never 
promised  to  conceal  it  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  wrote  word  to  Anno 
Ashleigh  that  I  would  therein  act  as  my  own  judgment  counseled 
me.  1  think  my  words  to  you  were  that  '  public  gossip  was  sonic- 
times  the  best  security  for  the  fulfilment  of  private  engagements.'  " 

"Do  you  mean  that  Mrs.  or  Miss  Ashleigh  recoils  from  the 
engagement  with  me,  and  that  I  should  meanly  compel  them  to 
fulfil  it  by  calling  in  the  public  to  censure  them — if — if — oh, 
madam,  this  is  worldly  artifice  indeed  !  " 

"  Be  good  enough  to  listen  to  me  quietly.  I  have  never  yet 
showed  you  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  written  by  Lady  Haugh- 
ton,  and  delivered  by  Mr.  Vigors.  That  letter  I  will  now  show 
to  yon;  hut  before  doing  so  I  must  enter  into  a  preliminary 
explanation.  Lady  Haughton  is  one  of  those  women  who  love 
power,  and  cannot  obtain  it  except  through  wealth  and  station — by 
her  own  intellect  never  obtain  it.  When  her  husband  died  she 
was  reduced  from  an  income  of  twelve  thousand  a  year  to  a  joint- 
ure of  twelve  hundred,  hut  with  the  exclusive  guardianship  of  a 
young  sou,  a  minor,  and  adequate  allowances  for  the  charge,  she 
continued,  therefore,  to  preVide  as  mistress  over  the  establishments 
in  town  and  country;  still  had  the  administration  i<(  her  son's 
Ith  and  rank.  She  stinted  his  education  in  order  to  maintain 
her  ascendency  over  him.  He  became  a  brainless  prodigal — 
spendthrift  alike  of  health  and  fortune.  Alarmed,  she  saw  thai 
probably  he  would  die  young  and  a  beggar;  his  only  hope  of  re- 
form was  in  marriage.  She  reluctantly  resolved  to  marry  him  to 
a  penniless,  well-born,  sob-minded  yonng  lady  whom  she  knew  she 
could  control  :  just  before  this  marriage  was  to  take  place  he  was 
killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse.  The  Haughton  estate  passed  io 
his  cousin,  the  luckiest  young  man  alive;  the  same  Ashleigh  Sum- 
ner who  had  already  succeeded,  in  default  of  male  issue,  to  poor 
Gilbert  Ashleigh's  landed  possessions.     Over  this  young  man  Lady 


100  A    STRAXGB    STORY. 

Haughton  could  expect  no  influence.  She  -would  be  a  stranger  in 
his  house.  But  she  had  a  niece !  Mr.  Vigors  assured  her  the 
niece  was  beautiful.  And  if  the  niece  could  become  Mrs.  Ashleigh 
Sumner,  then  Lady  Haughton  would  be  a  less  unimportant  No- 
body in  the  world,  because  she  would  still  have  her  nearest  relation 
in  a  Somebody  at  Haughton  Park.  Mr.  Vigors  had  his  own 
pompous  reasons  for  approving  an  alliance  which  he  might  help  to 
bring  about.  The  first  step  towards  that  alliance  was  obviously 
to  bring  into  reciprocal  attractions  the  natural  charms  of  the  young 
lady  and  the  acquired  merits  of  the  young  gentleman.  Mr.  Vigors 
could  easily  induce  his  ward  to  pay  a  visit  to  Lady  Haughton,  and 
Lady  Haughton  had  only  to  extend  her  invitations  to  her  niece ; 
hence  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  of  which  Mr.  Vigors  was  the 
bearer,  and  hence  my  advice  to  you,  of  which  you  can  now  under- 
stand the  motive.  Since  you  thought  Lilian  Ashleigh  the  only 
woman  you  could  love,  and  since  I  thought  there  were  other 
women  in  the  world  who  might  do  as  well  for  Ashleigh  Sumner, 
it  seemed  to  me  fair  for  all  parties  that  Lilian  should  not  go  to 
Lady  Haughton's  in  ignorance  of  the  sentiments  with  which  she 
had  inspired  you.  A  girl  can  seldom  be  sure  that  she  loves  until 
she  is  sure  that  she  is  loved.  And  now,"  added  Mrs.  Poyutz, 
rising  and  walking  across  the  room  to  her  bureau — "  now  I  will 
show  you  Lady  Haughton's  invitation  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh.  Here 
it  is  !  " 

i  ran  my  eye  over  the  letter  which  she  thrust  into  my  hand,  re- 
suming her  knitwork  while  I  read/ 

The  letter  was  short,  couched  in  conventional  terms  of  hollow 
affection.  The  writer  blamed  herself  for  having  so  long  neglected 
her  brother's  widow  and  child ;  her  heart  had  been  wrapped  up 
too  much  in  the  son  she  had  lost ;  that  loss  had  made  her  turn  to 
the  ties  of  blood  still  left  to  her;  she  had  heard  much  of  Lilian 
from  their  common  friend,  Mr.  Vigors  ;  she  longed  to  embrace  so 
charming  a  niece.  Then  followed  the  invitation  and  the  postscript. 
The  postscript  ran  thus,  so  far  as  I  can  remember  :  "  Whatever 
my  own  grief  at  my  irreparable  bereavement,  I  am  no  egotist,  I 
keep  my  sorrow  to  myself.  You  will  fild  some  pleasant  guests  at 
my  house,  among  others  our  joint  connection,  young  Ashleigh 
Sumner." 

"  Woman's  postscripts  are  proverbial  for  their  significance," 
said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  when  I  had  concluded  the  letter  and  laid  it  on 
the  table ;  "  and  if  I  did  not  at  once  show  you  this  hypocritical 
effusion,  it  was  simply  because  at  the  name  of  Ashleigh  Sumner  its 
object  became  transparent,  not  perhaps  to  poor  Anne  Ashleigh  nor 
to  innocent  Lilian,  but  to  my  knowledge  of  the  parties  concerned, 
and  to  that  shrewd  intelligence  which  you  derive  partly  from 
nature,  partly  from  the  insight  into  life  winch  a  true  physician 
cannot  fail  to  acquire.  And  if  I  know  anything  of  you,  you  would 
have  romantically  said,  had  you  seen  the  letter  at  first,  and  under- 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  101 

stood  its  covert  intention'  '  Let  me  not  shackle  the  choice  of  the 
woman  I  love,  and  to  whom  an  alliance  so  coveted  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  might,  if  she  were  left  free,  be  proffered.'  " 

"  I  should  not  have  gathered  from  the  postscript  all  that  you 
see  in  it,  but  had  its  purport  been  so  suggested  to  me,  you  are 
right,  I  should  have  so  said.  Well,  and  as  Mr.  Margrave  tells  me 
thai  you  informed  him  that  I  have  a  rival,  I  am  now  to  conclude 
that  the  rival  is  Mr.  Ashleigh  Sumner  !  " 

"  Has  not  Mrs.  Ashleigh  or  Lilian  mentioned  him  in  writing  to 
you  ? " 

"  Yes,  both  ;  Lilian  very  slightly  ;  Mrs.  Ashleigh  with  some 
praise,  as  a  young  man  of  high  character,  and  verv  courteous  to 
her." 

"  Yet,  though  I  asked  you  to  come  and  tell  mo  who  were  the 
guests  at  Lady  Ilaughton's  you  uever  did  so." 

"  Pardon  me  ;  but  of  the  guests  I  thought  nothing,  and  letters 
addressed  to  my  heart  seemed  to  me  too  sacred  to  talk  about. 
And  Ashleigh  Sumner  then  courts  Lilian  !      How  do  you  know  V 

"  I  know  everything  that  concerns  me  ;  and  here  the  explana- 
tion is  simple.  My  aunt,  Lady  Delafield,  is  staying  with  Lady 
Haughton.  Lady  Delafield  is  one  of  the  women  of  fashion  who 
shine  by  their  own  light;  Lady  Haughton  shines  by  borrowed 
light,  and  borrows  every  ray  she  can  find." 

''And  Lady  Delafield  writes  you  word — " 

"  That  Ashleigh  Sumner  is  caught  by  Lilian's  beauty." 

"  And  Lilian  herself — " 

"  Women  like  Lady  Delafield  do  not  readily  believe  that  any 
girl  would  refuse  Ashleigh  Sumner  ;  considered  in  himself,  he  is 
steady  and  good-looking  ;  considered  as  owner  of  Kirby  Hall  and 
Haughton  Park,  he  has,  in  The  eyes  of  any  sensible  mother,  the 
virtues  ofCato,  and  the  beauty  of  Antinous." 

I  pressed  my  hand  to  my  heart — close  to  my  heart,  lay  a  letter 
from  Lilian — and  there  was  no  word  in  that  letter  which  showed 
that  her  heart  was  gone  from  mine.  I  shook  my  head  gently,  and 
smiled  in  confiding  triumph.        • 

Mrs.  Poyntz  surveyed  me  with  a  bent  brow  and  a  compressed 
lip. 

"  I  understand  your  smile,"  she  said,  ironically.  "  Very  likely 
Lilian  may  be  quite  untouched  by  this  young  man's  admiration, 
but  Anne  Ashleigh  may  be  dazzled  by  so  brilliant  a  prospect  for 
her  daughter.  And,  in  short,  I  thought  it  desirable  to  let  your 
gement  be  publicly  known  throughout  the  town  to-day  ;  that 
information  will  travel — it  will  reach  Ashleigh  Sumner  through 
Mr.  Vigors,  or -others  in  this  neighborhood,  with  whom  I  know 
that  he  corresponds.  It  will  bring  affairs  to  a  crisis,  and  before  it 
may  be  too  bite.  I  think  it  well  that  Ashleigh  Sumner  should 
leave  that  house  ;  if  he  leaves  it  for  good  so  much  the  better.  And, 


102  •  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

perhaps,  the  sooner  Lilian  returns  to  L the  lighter  your  own 

heart  will  be." 
•"  And  for  those  reasons  you  have  published  the  secret  of — " 

-"  Your  engagement  1  Yes.  Prepare  to  be  congratulated  wher- 
ever you  go.  And  now,  if  you  hear  either  from  mother  or  daugh- 
ter, that  Ashleigh  Sumner  has  proposed,  and  been,  let  us  say,  re- 
fused, I  do  not  doubt  that  in  the  pride  of  your  heart  you  will  come 
and  tell  me." 

"  Rely  upon  it,  I  will ;  but  before  I  take  my  leave  allow  me  to 
ask  why  you  described  to  a  young  man  like  Mr.  Margrave — whose 
wild  and  strange  humors  you  have  witnessed  and  not  approved — 
any  of  those  traits  of  character  in  Miss  Ashleigh  which  distinguish 
her  from  other  girls  of  her  age  1" 

"  I  %  You  mistake.  I  said  nothing  to  him  of  her  character.  I 
mentioned  her  name,  and  said  she  was  beautiful,  that  was  all." 

"  Nay,  you  said  that  she  was  fond  of  musing,  of  solitude ;  that 
in  her  fancies  she  believed  in  the  reality  of  visions  which  might 
flit  before  her  eyes  as  they  flit  before  the  eyes  of  all  imaginative 
dreamers." 

"  Not  a  word  did  I  say  to  Mr.  Margrave  of  such  peculiarities 
in  Lilian  ;  not  a  word  more  than  what  I  have  told  you,  on  my 
honor !  " 

Still  incredulous,  but  disguising  my  incredulity  with  that  con- 
venient smile  by  which  we  accomplish  so  much  of  the  polite  dis- 
simulation indispensable  to  the  decencies  of  civilized  life,  1  took 
my  departure,  returned  home,  and  wrote  to  Lilian. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Tub  conversation  with  Mrs.  Poyntz  left  my  mind  restles.i  and 
disquieted.  I  had  no  doubt,  indeed,  of  Lilian's  truth  ;  but  could  I 
be  sure  that  the  attentions  of  a  young  man  with  advantages  of 
fortune  so  brilliant,  would  not  force  on  Jier  thoughts  the  contrast 
of  the  humbler  lot  and  the  duller  walk  of  life  in  which  she  had  ac- 
cepted as  companion  a  man  removed  from  her  romantic  youth  less 
by  disparity  of  years  than  by  gravity  of  pursuits  1  And  would  my 
suit  now  be  as  welcomed  as  it  had  been  by  a  mother  even  so  un- 
worldly as  Mrs.  Ashleigh  1  Why,  too,  should  both  mother  and 
daughter  have  left  me  so  unprepared  to  hear  that  I  had  a  rival  '.' 
Why  not  have  implied  some  conso  ing  assurance  that  such  rivalry 
need  cause  me  no  alarm.  Lilian's  letters,  it  is  true,  touched  but 
little  on  any  of  the  persons  round  her — they  were  filled  with  the 
outpourings  of  an  ingenuous  heart,  colored  by  the  glow  of  a  golden 
fancy.  They  were  written  as  if  in  the  wide  world  we  two  stood 
apart,  alone,  consecrated  from  the  crowd  by  the  love  that,  in  link- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  103 

ing  us  together,  liad  hallowed  each  to  each.  But  Mrs.  Ashleigh's 
letters  were  more  general  and  diffusive,  detailed  the  habits  of  the 
household,  sketched  the  guests,  intimated  continued  fear  of  Lady 
Haiighton,  but  had  said  nothing  more  of  Mr.  Ashleigh  Sumner 
than  J  bad  repeated  to  Mrs.  Poyntz.  However,  in  my  letter  to 
Lilian  1  related  the  intelligence  that  had  reached  me,  and  im- 
patiently I  awaited  her  reply. 

Three  days  after  the  interview  with  Mrs.  Poyntz,  and  two  days 
before  the  long-anticipated  event  of  the  mayor's  ball,  I  was  sum- 
moned to  attend  a  nobleman  who  had  lately  been  added  to  my  list 
of  patients,   and  whose   residence  was  about   twelve  miles  from 

L-j .     The  nearest  way  was  through  Sir  Philip  Derval's  park. 

1  went  on  horseback,  and  proposed  to. stop  on  the  way  to  impure 
after  the  steward,  whom  I  had  seen  but  once  since  his  tit.  and  t bat- 
was  two  days  after  it.  when  be  called  himself  at  my  bouse  to  thank 
me  for  my  attendance,  and  to  declare  that  he  was  quite  recovered. 

As  I  rode  somewhat  fast  through  Sir  P.  Derval's  park,  I  came, 
however,  upon  the  steward,  just  in  front  of  the  house.  1  reined  in 
my  horse  and  accosted  him.     lie  looked  very  cheerful. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  have  heard  from  Sir  Philip;  his 
letter  is  dated  since — since — my  good  woman  told  you  what  I 
'saw  ; — well,  since  then.  So  that  it  must  have  been  all  a  delusion 
of  mine,  as  yon  told  her.  And  yet,  well — well — we  will  not  talk 
of  it,  doctor.  But  1  hope  you  have  kept  the  secret.  Sir  Philip 
would  not  like  to  bear  of  it  if  he  comes  back." 

"  Your  secret  is  quite  safe  wi  h  me.  But  is  Sir  Philip  likely  to 
come  back  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,  doctor.  His  letter  is  dated  Paris,  and  that's  nearer 
home  than  he  has  been  for  many  years ;  and — but  bless  me — 
some  one  is  coming  out  of  the  bouse  1  a  young  gentleman  !  Who 
can  it  be  /  " 

I  looked,  and  to  my  surprise  I  saw  Margrave  descending  the 
stately  stairs  that  led  from  the  front  door.  The  steward  turned 
toward  him,  and  I  mechanically  followed,  for  I  was  curious  to 
know  what  bad  brought  Margrave  to  the  bouse  of  the  long-absent 
traveler. 

It  was  easily  explained/     Mr.  Margrave  had  heard   at  L- 


much  of  the  pictures  and  internal  decorations  of  the  mansion.  He 
had  by  dint  of  coaxing  (be  said,  with  his  enchanting  laugh),  per- 
suaded the  old  housekeeper  to  show  him  the  rooms. 

"  It  is  against  Sir  Philip's  positive  orders  to  show  the  house  to 
any  stranger,  sir ;  and  the  housekeeper  has  done  very  wrong," 
said  the  steward. 

"  Pray  don't  scold  her.  I  dare  say  Sir  Philip  would  not  have 
refused  me  a  permission  he  might  not  give  to  every  idle  sight-seer. 
Fellow-travelers  bave  a  freemasonry  with  each  other  ;  and  I  have 
been  much  in  the  same  far  countries  as  himself.     I  heard  of  him 


104  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

there,  and  could  tell  you  more  about  him,  I  dare  say,  than  you 
know  yourself." 

"  You,  sir  !  pray  do  then." 

"  The  next  time  I  come,"  said  Margrave,  gaily  ;  and  with  a  nod 
to  me  he  glided  off  through  the  trees  of  the  neighboring  grove, 
along  the  winding  foot-path  that  led  to  the  lodge. 

"A  very  cool  gentleman,"  muttered  the  steward;  "but  what 
pleasant  ways  he  bas  !  You  seem  to  know  him,  sir.  Who  is  he. — 
may  I  ask  1" 

"  Mr.  Margrave.     A  visitor  at  L ,  and  he  has  been  a  great 

traveler,  as  he  says  ;  perhaps  he  met  Sir  Philip  abroad." 

"  I  must  go  and  hear  what  he  said  to  Mrs.  Gates  ;  excuse  jne, 
sir,  but  I  am  so  anxious  about  Sir  Philip." 

"  If  it  be  not  too  great  a  favor,  may  I  be  allowed  the  same 
privilege  granted  to  Mr.  Margrave?  To  judge  by  the  outside  of 
the  house,  the  inside  must  be  worth  seeing  ;  still,  if  it  be  against 
Sir  Philip's  positive  orders — " 

"  His  orders  were  not  to  let  the  Court  become  a  show-house — 
to  admit  none  without  my  consent;  but  I  should  be  ungrateful 
indeed,  doctor,  if  I  refused  that  consent  to  you." 

I  tied  my  horse  to  the  rusty  gate  of  the  terrace  walk,  and  fol- 
lowed the  steward  up  the  broad  stairs  of  the  terrace.  The  great 
doors  were  unlocked.  We  entered  a  lofty  hall  with  a  domed  ceil- 
ing ;  at  the  back  of  the  hall  the  grand  staircase  ascended  by  a 
double  flight.  The  design  was  undoubtedly  Vanbrugh's,  an  archi- 
tect who,  beyond  all  others,  sought  the  effect  of  grandeur  less  in 
space  than  in  proportion.  But  Vanbrugh's  designs  need  the  relief  of 
costume  and  movement,  and  the  forms  of  a  more  pompous  genera- 
tion,in  the  bravery  of  velvets  and  laces,  glancing  amid  those  gilded 
columns,  or  descending  with  stately  tread  those  broad  palatial 
stairs.  His  halls  and  chambers  are  so  made  for  festival  and  throng, 
that  they  become  like  deserted  theatres,  inexpressibly  desolate,  as 
we  miss  the  glitter  of  the  lamps  and  the  movement  of  the  actors. 

The  housekeeper  had  now  appeared  ;  a  quiet,  timid  old  woman. 
She  excused  herself  for  admitting  Margrave,  not  very  intelligibly. 
It  was  plain  to  see  that  she  had,  in  truth,  been  unable  to  resist 
what  the  steward  termed  his  "pleasant  ways.'' 

As  if  to  escape  from  a  scolding,  she  talked  volubly  all  the  time, 
bustling  nervously  through  the  rooms,  along  which  I  followed  her 
guidance  with  a  hushed  footstep.  The  principal  apartments  were 
on  the  ground-floor,  or  rather  a  floor  raised  some  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
above  the  ground ;  they  had  not  been  modernized  since  the  dare 
in  which  they  were  built.  Hangings  of  faded  silk  ;  tables  of  rare 
marble,  and  mouldered  guilding;  comfortless  chairs  at  drill  against 
the  walls  ;  pictures,  of  which  connoisseurs  alone  could  estimate 
the  value,  darkened  by  dust  or  blistered  by  sun  and  damp,  made 
a  general  character  of  discomfort.  On  not  one  room,  on  not  one 
nook,  still  lingered  some  old  smile  of  Home. 


A    STKAXGE   STORY.  105 

Meanwhile  I  gathered  from  the  housekeeper's  rambling  an- 
swers to  questions  put  to  lier  by  the  steward,  as  I  moved  on, 
glancing  at  the  pictures,  thai  Margrave's  visit  that  day  was  not  his 
first,  lie  had  been  over  the  house  twice  before  :  his  ostensible 
excuse  that  he  was  an  amateur  in  pictures  (though  as  I  have  before 
observed!  for  that  department  of  art  he  had  no  taste)  ;  hut  each 
time  he  had  talked  much  of  Sir  Philip,  lie  said  Ilia  .  though  not 
personally  known  to  him.  be  had  resided  in  the  same  towns  abroad, 
and  bad  friends  equally  intimate  with  Sir  Philip;  hut  when  the 
steward  inquired  if  the  visitor  had  given  any  information  as  to  the 
absentee,  it  became  very  clear  that  Margrave  bad  been  rather 
asking  questions  than  volunteering  intelligence.  < 

We  had  now  come  to  the  end  of  the  state  apartments,  the  last 
of  which  was  a  library.  "And,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  I  don't 
wonder  the  gentleman  knew  Sir  Philip,  for  he  seemed  a  scholar, 
and  looked  very  hard  over  the  hooks,  especially  those  old  ones  by 
the  fire-place,  which  Sir  Philip,  Heaven  bless  him,  was  always 
pouring  over." 

Mechanically  I  turned  to  the  Shelves  by  the  fire-place,  and  ex- 
amined the  volumes  ranged  in  tflat  department.  I  found  they 
contained  the  works  of  those  writers  whom  we  may  class  together 
under  the  title  of  mystics — Porphyry  and  P;ofinus:  Swedenborg 
and  Behmen;  Sandivogius,  Van  Helmont,  Paracelsus,  Cardan. 
Works,  too,  were  tbefe,  by  writers  less  renowned,  on  astrology, 
geomancy,  chiromancy,  etc.  1  began  to  understand  among  \ 
class  of  authors  Margrave  had  picked  up  the  strange  notions  with 
which  he  was  apt  to  interpolate  the  doctrines  of  practical  phil 
pby. 

'•I  suppose  this  library  was  Sir  Philip's  usual  sitting-room  .'" 
said  I. 

"No,  sir  ;  he  seldom  sat  here.  This  was  his  study  :*'  and  the 
old  woman  opened  a  small  door,  masked  by  false  book  hacks.  I 
followed  berinto  a  roam  of  moderate  size,  and  evidently  of  much 
earlier  date  than  the  rest  of  the  house.  "  It  is  the  only  room  of  an 
older  mansion,"  said  the  steward,  in  answer  to  my  remarks.  "I 
have  heard  it  was  loft  standing  on  account  of  the  chimney-piece. 
But  there  is  a  Latin  inscription  which  will  tel!  you  all  about  it.  I 
don't  know  Latin  myself,"  said  the  steward. 

The  chimney-piece  reached  to  the  ceiling.  The  frieze  of  the 
lower  part  rested  on  rude  stone  caryatides  ;  in  the  upper  part  were 
oak  panels  very  curiously  carved  in  the  geometrical  designs  fa- 
vored by  the  taste  prevalent  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James, 
hut  different  from  any  I  had  ever  seen  in  drawings  of  old  houses. 
And  1  was  not  quite  unlearned  in  such  matters,  for  my  poor 
father  was  a  passionate  antiquarian  in  all  that  relates  to  medieval 
art.  The  design  in  the  oak  panels  was  composed  of  triangles  in- 
terlaced with  varied  ingenuity,  and  inclosed  in  circular  hands  in- 
Boribed  with  the  sians  of  the  Zodiac. 


106  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

On  the  stone  frieze  supported  by  the  caryatide,  immediately  un- 
der the  wood-work,  was  inserted  a  metal  plate,  on  which  was  writ- 
ten, in  Latin,  a  few  lines  to  the  effect  that,  "in  this  room  Simon 
Forman,  the  seeker  of  hidden  truth,  taking  refuge  from  unjust  per- 
secution, made  those  discoveries  in  nature  which  he  committed, 
for  the  benefit  of  a  wiser  age,  to  the  charge  of  his  protector  and 
patron,  the  worshipful  Sir  Miles  Derval,  knight." 

Forman  !  The  name  was  not  quite  unfamiliar  to  me  ;  but  it 
was  not  without  an  effort  that  my  memory  enabled  me  to  assign  it 
to  one  of  the  most  notorious  of  those  astrologers  or  soothsasers 
whom  the  superstition  of  an  earlier  age  alternately  persecuted  and 
honored. 

The  general  character  of  the  room  was  more  cheerfuld  than  the 
statelier  chambers  I  had  hitherto  passed  through,  for  it  had  still 
the  look  of  habitation.  The  arm-chair  by  the  tire-placo  ;  the  knee- 
hole  writing  table  beside  it ;  the  sofa  near  the  recess  of  a  large 
bay-window,  with  book-prop  and  candlestick  screwed  to  its  back; 
maps,  coiled  in  their  cylinders,  ranged  under  the  cornice;  low 
strong  safes  skirting  two  sides  of  the  room,  and  apparently  intend- 
ed to  hold  papers  and  title  deeds;  seals  carefully  affixed  to  their 
jealous  locks.  Placed  on  the  top  of  these  old-fashioned  receptacles 
were  articles  familiar  to  modern  use;  a  fowling-piece  here;  fish- 
ing rods  there;  two  or  three  simple  flower  vases  ;  a  pile  of  music- 
books  ;  a  box  of  crayons.  All  in  this  room  seemed  to  speak  of 
residence  and  ownership — of  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a  single  man, 
it  is  true,  but  of  a  man  of  one's  own  time — a  country  gentleman 
of  plain  habits  but  not  uncultivated  tastes. 

I  moved  to  the  window  ;  it  opened  by  a  sash  upon  a  large 
balcony,  within  which  a  wooden  stair  wound  to  a  little  garden, 
not  visible  in  front  of  the  house,  surrounded  by  a  thick  grove  of 
evergreens,  through  which  one  broad  vista  was  cut;  and  that  vis- 
ta was  closed  by  a  view  of  the  mausoleum. 

I  stepped  out  into  the  garden — a  patch  of  sward  with  a  foun- 
tain in  the  centre — and  parterres,  now  more  filled  with  weeds 
than  flowers.  At  the  left  corner,  was  a  tall  wooden  summer- 
house  or  pavilion;  its  door  wide  open.  "Oh,  thatl?  where  Sir 
Philip  used  to  study  many  a  long  summer's  night,"  said  the 
steward. 

"  What !  in  that  damp  pavilion  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  pretty  place  enough  then,  sir  ;  but  it  is  very  old. 
They  say  as  old  as  the  room  you  have  just  left." 

"  Indeed,  I  must  look  at  it  then."  The  walls  of  this  summer- 
house  had  once  been  painted  in  the  arabesques  of  the  llennaissance 
period  ;  but  the  figures  now  were  scarcely  traceable.  The  wood- 
work had  started  in  some  places,  and  the  sunbeams  stole  through 
the  chinks  and  played  on  the  floor,  which  was  formed  from  old  tiles 
quaintly  tesselated  and  in  triangular  patterns,  similar  to  those  I  had 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  107 

remarked  in  the  chimney-piece.    The  room  in   the   pavilion  was 
large,  furnished  with  old  worm-eaten  tables  and  settles. 

"  It  was  not  only  here  that  Sir  Philip  studied,  but  sometimes  in 
the  room  above,"  said  the  steward. 

"How  do  you  gel  to  the  room  above  ?  Oh,  I  see;  a  staircase 
in  the  au.ule." 

I  ascended  the  stairs  with  some  caution,  for  they  were  crooked 
and  decayed  ;  and  on  entering  the  room  above,  comprehended,  at 
once  why  Sir  Philip  had  favored  it. 

The  cornice  of  the  ceiling  rested  on  pilasters,  within  which 
compartments  were  formed  into  open,  unclosed  arches,  surrounded 
by  a  railed  balcony.  Through  these  arches,  on  three  sides  of  the 
room,  the  eye  commanded  a  magnificenl  extent  of  prospect.  ( )n  the 
fourth  side  the  view  was  hounded  by  the  mausoleum.  In  this  room 
was  a  large  telescope,  and  on  stepping  into  the  balcony,  1  saw  that 
a  winding  stair  mounted  thence  to  a  platform  on  the  top  of  the 
pavilion — perhaps  once  used  as  an  observatory  by  Fonnan 
himself. 

"The  gentleman  who  was  here  to-day  was  very  much  pleased 
with  this  look-out,  sir,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"Who  could  not  bel  I  suppose  Sir  Philip  has  a  taste  for 
astronomy." 

"  I  dare  say,  sir."  said  the  steward,  looking  grave  ;  "  he  likes 
most  out-of-the-way  things." 

The  position  of  the  sun  now  warned  me  that  my  time  pre 
and  that  I  should  have  to  ride  fast  to  reach  my  new  patient  at  the 
hour  appointed.  1  therefore  hastened  back  to  my  horse,  and 
spurred  on,  wondering  whether  in  that  chain  of  association  which 
so  subtly  links  our  pursuits  in  manhood  to  our  impressions  in  child- 
hood, it  was  the  Latin  inscription  on  the  chimney-piece  that  had 
originally  biased  Sir  Philip  Dcrval's  literary  taste  toward  the 
mystic  jargon  of  the  books  at  which  I  had  contemptuously 
glanced. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

I  Din  not  see  Margrave  the  following  day.  but  the  next  morning, 
a  little  after  sunrise,  he  walked  into  my  study,  according  to  his 
ordinary  habit. 

"So  you  know  something  about  Sir  Philip  Derval  ?"  said  I. 
"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  !  " 

••  Hateful!  "  cried  Margrave;  and  then  checking  himself,  hurst 
out  into  his  merry  laugh.  "Just  like  my  exaggerations!  I  am 
not  acquainted  with  anything  to  his  prejudice.     1  came  across  his 


108  A    STKANGE    STORY. 

Track  once  or  twice  in  the  East.  Travelers  are  always  apt  to  be 
jealous  of  each  other." 

"  You  are  a  strange  compound  of  cynicism  and  credulity.  But  I 
should  have  fancied  that  you  and  Sir  Philip  would  have  been  con- 
genial spirits,  when  I  found  among  his  favorite  books  Vau  Helmont 
and  Paracelsus.  Perhaps  you,  too,  study  Swedenborg;  or,  worse, 
still,  Ptolemy  and  Lilly  %  " 

"  Astrologers  1  No !  They  deal  with  the  future !  I  live  for  the 
day,  only  I  wish  the  day  never  had  a  morrow !  " 

"  Have  you  not,  then,  that  vagne  desire  for  the  something  be- 
yond; that  not  unhappy,  but  grand  discontent  with  the  limits  of 
the  immediate  Present,  from  which  Man  takes  his  passion  for  im- 
provement and  progress,  and  from  which  some  sentimental  philoso- 
phers have  deduced  an  argument  in  favor  of  his  destined  im- 
mortality %  " 

"•Eh  !"  said  Margrave  with  as  vacant  a  si  are  as  that  of  a 
peasant  whom  one  has  addressed  in  Hebrew.  "  What  farrago  of 
words  is/ this  1     I  do  not  comprehend  you." 

"With  your  natural  abilities,"  I  asked  with  interest,  "  do  you 
never  feel  a  desire  for  fame  ?  " 

"  Fame  !     Certainly  not.     1  cannot  even  understand  it !  " 

"  Well,  then,  would  you  have  no  pleasure  in  the  thought  that 
you  had  rendered  a  service  to  humanity  'I  " 

Margrave  looked  bewildered.  After  a  moment's  pause  he  took 
from  the  table  a  piece  of  bread  that  chanced  to  be  there,  opened 
the  window,  and  threw  the  crumbs  into  the  lane.  The  sparrows 
gathered  round  the  crumbs. 

"Now,"  said  Margrave,  "the  sparrows  come  to  that  dull  pave- 
ment for  the  bread  that  recruits  their  lives  in  this  world;  do  you 
believe  that  one  sparrow  would  be  silly  enough  to  fly  to  a  house- 
top for  the  sake  of  some  benefit  to  other  sparrows,  or  -to  be 
chirrupped  about  after  he  was  dead  \  I  care  for  science  as  the 
sparrow  cares  for  bread;  it  may  help  me  to  something  good  for 
my  own  life,  and  as  for  fame  and  humanity,  I  care  for  them  as  a 
sparrow  cares  for  the  general  interest  and  posthumous  approbation 
of  sparrows  !  " 

"  Margrave  !  there  is  one  thing  in  you  that  perplexes  me  more 
than  all  else — human  puzzle  as  you  are — in  your  many  eccentrici- 
Mess  and  self-contradictions." 

"  What  is  that  one  thing  in  me  most  perplexing  ?  " 

"  This;  that  in  your  enjoyment  of  nature  you  have  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  a  child,  but  when  you  speak  of  man  and  his  objects  in  the 
world,  you  talk  in  the  vein  of  some  worn-out  and  hoary  cynic.  At 
such  times,  were  I  td  close  my  eyes,  I  should  say  to  myself,  'What 
weary  old  man  is  venting  his  spleen  against  the  ambition  which 
has  failed,  and  the  love  which  has  forsaken  him  .' '  Outwardly  the 
very  personation  of  youth,  and  revelling  like  a  butterfly  in  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  and  the  tints  of  the  herbage,  why  have  you 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  109 

none  of  the  golden  passions  of  the  young?  their  bright  dreams,  of 
some  impossible  love — their  sublime  enthusiasm  for  some  unat- 
tainable glory  '.  The  sentiment  you  have  just  clothed  in  your 
parable  of  the  sparrows  is  too  mean  and  too  gloomy  to  be  genuine 
at  your  age.  Misanthropy  is  among  the  dismal  fallacies  of  gray- 
beards.  No  man.  till  man's  energies  leave  him,  can  divorce  him- 
self from  the  bonds  of  our  social  kind." 

"  Our  kind — your  kind,  possibly!  But  I — "  He  swept  his 
hand  over  his  brow,  and  resumed,  in  strange,  absent)  and  wistful 
accents;  "  1  wonder  what  it  is  that  is  wanting  here,  and  of  which 
at  moments  1  have  a  dim  reminiscence."  Again  he  panned,  and 
gazing  on  me,  said,  with  more  appearance  of  friendly  interest  than 
1  had  ever  before  remarked  on  his  countenance.  "  You  are  nut 
Looking  well.  ■  Despite  your  great  physical  strength,  you  suller 
like  your  own  sickly  patients." 

"True!     1  suffer  ai  this  moment,  bul  not  from  bodily  pain," 

"You  have  some  cause  of  mental  disquietude  \  " 

"  Whb  in  this  world  has  not  !  " 

"  I  never  have." 

"Because  you  own  you  have  never  loved  ;  and  certainly  you 
never  seem  to  v:\vt'  for  any  one  but  yourself;  and  in  yourself  you 
find  an  unbroken,  sunny  holiday — high  spirits,  youth,  health, 
beauty,  wealth.     Happy  boy  !  " 

At  that  moment  my  heart  was  heavy  within  me. 

Margrave  resumed : 

"Among  the  secrets  which  your  knowledge  places  at  the  com- 
mand of  your  art.  what  would  you  give  for  one  which  would  enable 
you  to  defy  and  deride  a  rival  where  you  place  your  affections, 
which  could  lock  lo  jourself  and  imperiously  control  the  will  of 
the  being  whom  you  desire  to  fascinate,  by  an  influence  para- 
mount, transcendent  I  " 

"Love  has  that  secret."  said  1,  "  and  love  alone." 

••A  power  stronger  than  love  can  suspend,  can  change,  love 
itself.  But  if  love  lie  the  object  or  dream  of  your  life,  love  is 
the  rosy  associate  of  youth  and  beauty.  Beauty  soon  fades,  youth 
soon  departs.  What  if  in  nature  were  the  means  by  which  beauty 
and  youth  can  be  fixed  into  blooming  duration — means  that  can 
arrest  the  course,  nay,  repair  the  effects  of  time  on  the  elements 
that  make  up  the  human  frame!" 

"  Silly  boy  !  Have  the  Rosicruclans  bequeathed  to  you  a  pre- 
scription for  the  elixir  of  life?  " 

"If  I  had  the  prescription  1  should  not  ask  your  aid  to  dis- 
oover  its  ingredient 

■.lid  is    i;    on    the  hope  of  that  notable   discovery  you  1 
studied    chemistry,    electricity,    and    magnetism'/     Again  I  say, 
si!i\  boy !  " 

Margrave    did     not    heed     my    reply.     His  fate  was  overcast, 

gloomy,  troubled. 


110  A   STRANGE    STJDRY. 

"  That  the  vital  principle  is  a  gas,"  said  he,  abruptly,  "  I  am 
fully  convinced.  Can  that  gas  be  the  one  which  combines  caloric 
With  oxygen  1  " 

"  Phosoxygen  ?  Sir  Humphrey  Davy  demonstrates  that  gas 
not  to  be,  as  "Lavoisier  supposed,  caloric,  but  light,  combined  with' 
oxygen,  and  he  suggests,  not  indeed  that  it  is  the  vital  principle 
itself,  but  the  pabulum  of  life  to  organic  beings."* 

"Does  he?"  said  Margrave,  his  face  clearing  up.  "  Possibly, 
possibly,  then,  here  we  approach  the  great  secret  of  secrets.  Look 
you,  Allen  Fenwick,  I  promise  to  secure  to  you  unfailing  security 
from  all  the  jealous  fears  that  now  torture  your  heart ;  if  you 
care  for  that  fame  which  to  me  is  not  worth  the  scent  of  a  flower, 
the  balm  of  a  breeze.  I  will  impart  to  you  a  knowledge  which, 
in  the  hands  of  ambition,  would  dwarf  into  commonplace  the 
boasted  wonders  of  recognized  science.  I  will  do  all  this,  if,  in 
return,  but  for  one  month  you  will  give  yourself  up  to  my  gui- 
dance in  whatever  experiments  1  ask,  no  matter  how  wild  they 
may  seem  to  you." 

"  My  dear  Margrave,  I  reject  your  bribes  as  I  would  reject  the 
moon  and  the  stars  which  a  child  might  offer  to  me  in  exchange 
for  a  toy.  But  I  may  give  the  child  its  toy  ibr  nothing,  and  I 
may  test  your  experiments  for  nothing  some  day  when  I  have 
leisure." 

I  did  not  hear  Margrave's  answer,  for  at  that  moment  my  ser- 
vant entered  with  letters.  Lilian's  hand  !  Tremblingly,  breath- 
lessly, I  broke  the  seal.  Such  a  loving,  bright,  happy  letter ;  SO 
sweet  in  its  gentle  chiding  of  ray  wrongful  fears.  It  was  implied 
rather  than  said  that  Ashleigh  Sumner  bad  proposed,  and  been 
refused.  He  bad  now  left  the  house.  Lilian  and  her  mother  were 
coming  back;  in  a  few  days  we  should  meet.  In  this  letter  were 
enclosed  a  few  lines  from  Mrs.  Ashleigh.  She  was  more  explicit 
as  to  my  rival  than  Lilian  had  been.  If  no  allusion  to  his  atten- 
tions had  been  made  to  me  before,  it  was  from  delicate  considera- 
tion for  myself.     Mrs.  Ashleigh   said   that  "  the  young   man  had 

heard  from  L of  our  engagement,  and — disbelieved  it ;  "    but, 

as  Mrs.  Poyntz  had  so  shrewdly  predicted,  hurried  at  once  to  ihe 
avowal  of  his  own  attachment,  and  the  offer  of  his  own  hand.  On 
Lilian's  refusal  his  pride  had  been  deeply  mortified.  He  had  gone 
away  manifestly  in  more  anger  than  sorrow.  "  Lady  Delarield, 
dear  Margaret  Poyntz's  aunt,  had  been  most  kind  in  trying  to 
soothe  Lady  Haughton's  disappointment,  which  was  rudely  ex- 
pressed— so  rudely,"  added  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  "  that  it  gives  us  an 
excuse  to  leave  sooner  than  had  been  proposed — which  I  am  very 
glad  of.  Lady  Delarield  feels  much  for  Mr.  Sumner;  has  invited 
him  to  visit  her  at  a  place  she  has  near  Worthing ;  she  leaves  to- 
morrow in  order  to  receive  him  ;  promises  To  reconcile  him  to  our 
rejection,  which,  as  he  was  my  poor  Gilbert's  heir,  and  was  very 

*  See  Sir  Humphrey  Davy  cm  Heat,  Light,  and  the  (Jouibiuatious  of  Light. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  Ill 

friendly  at  first,  -would  be  a  great  relief  to  my  mind.  Lilian  is 
well,  and  so  happy  at  the  thoughts  of  comin||  back." 

When  I  lifted  my  eyes  from  these  letters  I  was  as  a  new  man. 

and  the  earth  seemed  a  new  earth.  1  felt  as  if  I  had  realized 
Margray'e'9  idle  dreams — as  if  youth  could  never  fade,  love  could 
never  grow  eold. 

"You  care  for  no  secrets  of  mine  at  this  moment,"  said  Mar- 
grave, abruptly. 

"  Secrets,"  I  murmured  ;  "none  now  are  worth  knowing.  I  am 
loved — I  am  loved!  " 

"I  trifle  my  time,"  said  Margrave' ;  and  as  my  eyes  met  his,  1 
saw  there  a  look  1  had  never  seen  in  those  eyes  before — sinister, 
wrathful,  menacing,  lie  turned  away,  went  out  through  the  sash 
door  of  the  study;  and  as  he  passed  toward  the  fields  under  the 
luxuriant  chestnut-trees,  I  heard  his  musical  barbaric  chant — the 
son-  by  which  the  serpent-charmer  charms  the  serpent  ; — sweet, 
so  sweet — the  very  birds  on  the  houghs  hushed  their  carol  as  if  to 
listen. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

I  CALLED  that  day  on  Mrs.  Poyntz,  and  communicated  to  her 
the  prospect  of  the  glad  news  1  had  received. 

She  was  still  at  work  on  the  everlasting  knitting,  her  firm  lingers 
linking  mesh  into  mesh  as  she  listened;  and  when  1  had  done,  she 
laid  her  skein  deliberately  down,  and  said,  in  her  favorite  charac- 
teristic formula, 

"So  at  lasi  !— that  is  settled!" 

She  rose  and  paced  the  room  as  men  are  apt  to  do  in  reflection — 
women  rarely  need  such  movement  to  aid  their  thoughts — her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  one  hand  was  lightly  pressed  on  the 
palm  of  the  other,  the  gesture  of  a  musing  reasoner  who  is  ap- 
proaching the  close  of  a  difficult  calculation. 

At  length  she  paused,  fronting  me,  and  said,  dryly, 

"  Accept  my  congratulations — life  smiles  on  you  now — guard 
that  smile,  and  When  we  meet  next  may  we  be  even  tinner  friends 
than  we  are  now  !  " 

"  When  we  meet  next — that  will  be  to-night — you  surely  go  to 
the  mayor's  great  ball.  All  the  Hill  descends  to  Low  Town  to- 
night." 

'•No;  we  are  obliged  to   leave   L this   afternoon — in  less 

than  two  hours  we  shall  be  gone — a  family  engagement.  We  may 
be  weeks  away  ;  you  will  excuse  me,  then,  if  I  take  leave  of  you 
so  unceremonipusly.  Stay;  a  motherly  word  of  caution.  That 
friend   of   yours,  Mr.  Margrave.     Moderate   your  intimacy  with 


112  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

him,  and  especially  after  you  are  married.  There  is  in  that 
stranger,  of  whom  sofirrle  is  known,  a  something:  which  I  cannot 
comprehend— a  something  that  captivates,  and  yet  revolts.  I  find 
him  disturbing  my  thoughts,  perplexing  my  conjectures,  haunting 
my  fancies — I,  plain  woman  of  the  world  !  Lilian  is  imagina- 
tive:   beware  of  her  imagination,  even  when  sure  of  her  heart. 

Beware  of  Margrave.     The  sooner  he  quits  L ,  the  better, 

believe  me,  for  your  peace  of  mind.  Adieu,  I  must  prepare  for 
our  journey." 

"  That  woman,"  muttered  I,  on  quitting  her  house.  "  seems  to 
have  some  strange  spite  against  my  poor  Lilian,  ever  seeking  to 
rouse  my  own  distrust  of  that  exquisite  nature  which  has  just 
given  me  such  proof  of  its  truth.  And  yet — and  yet — is  that 
woman  so  wrong  here  1  True!  Margrave  with  his  wild  notions, 
his  strange  beauty  ! — true — true — he  might  dangerously  encour- 
age that  turn  for  the  mystic  and  visionary  which  distrtfeses  me  in 
Lilian.     Lilian  should  not  know  him.     How  induce  him  to  leave 

L ?     Ah — those  experiments  on  which  he  asks  my  assistance! 

I  might  commence  them  when  he  comes  again,  and  then  invent 
some  reason  to  send  him  for  completer  tests  to  the  famous 
chemists  of  Paris  or  Berlin." 


CHAPTER  XXXI.  . 

It  is  the  night  of  the  mayor's  ball !     The  guests  are  assembling 
fast;    county  families  twelve   miles  round  have  been  invited,  as 
well  as  the  principal  families  of  the  town.     All,  before  pro  ceding 
to  the  room  set.  apart  for  the  dance,  moved  in  procession  through, 
the  museum — homage  to  science  before  pleasure  ! 

The  building  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and  the  effect  was  striking, 
perhaps  because  singular  and  grotesque.  There,  amidst  stands 
of  flowers  and  evergreens,  lit  up  with  colored  lamps,  were  grouped 
the  dead  representatives  of  races  all  inferior — some  deadly — to 
man.  The  fancy*  of  the  ladies  had  been  permitted  to  decorate 
and  arrange  these  types  of  the  animal  world.  The,  tiger  glared 
with  glass  eyes  from  amidst  artificial  reeds  and  herbage,  as  from 
his  native  jungle;  the  grizzly  white  bear  peered  from  a  mimic 
iceberg.  There,  in  front,  stood  the  sage  elephant,  facing  a  hideous 
hippopotamus  ;  while  an  anaconda  twined  its  long  spire  round  the 
stem  of  some  tropical  tree  in  zinc.  In  glass  cases,  brought  into 
full  light  by  festooned  lamps,  were  dreaded  specimens  of  the  reptile 
race — scorpion  and  vampire,  and  cobra  capella,  with  insects  of 
gorgeous  hues,  not  a  few  of  them  with  venomed  stings. 

But  the  chief  boast  of  the  collection  was  in  the  varieties  of  the 
genus  simia — baboons  and  apes,  chimpanzees,  with  their  human 
i 


A    .STRANGE    STORY.  113 

/ 

visage,  mockeries  of  man,  from  tlie  dwarf  monkey*  perched  on 
boughs  lopped  from  the  mayor's  shrubberies,  to  the  formidable 
orang  outang  leaning  on  his  huge  club. 

Everyone  expressed  to  the  mayor  delight,  and  to  each  other 
antipathy,  for  this,  uriwonted  and  somewhal  gBastiy,  though  in- 
structive addition  to  the  revels  of  a  ball-room. 

Margrave,  of*  course,  was  there,  and  seemingly  quite  at  home, 
gliding  from  group  to  group  ofgayly-dressed  ladies,  and  bril  iant 
with  a  childish  eagerness  to  play  off  the  showman.  Many  of  these 
grim  fellow-creatures  he  declared  he  had  seen,  played,  or  fought 
with.  He  had  something  Irne  or  false  to  say  ahont  each.  In  his 
high  spirits  he  contrived  to  make  the  tiger  move,  and  imitated  the 
hiss  of  the  terrible  anaconda.  All  that  he  did  had  its  grace,  its 
charm  ;  and  the  buzz  of  admiration  and  the  flatten!  >  of 

ladies'  eyes  followed  him  wherever  he  moved. 

However,  there  was  a  general  feeing  of  relief  when,  the  mayor 
led  the  way  from  the  museum  into  ihe  hall-room.  In  provincial 
panics  guests  arrive  pretty  much  within  the  same  hour,  and  so 
feW  who  had  once  paid  their  respects  to  the  apes  and  serpents,  the 
hippopotamus  and  the  tiger,  were  disposed  to  repeal  the  visit-, 
thai  long  before  eleven  o'clock  the  museum  was  as  free  from  ihe 
intrusion  of  human  life  as  the  wilderness  in  which  its  dead  occu- 
s  had  been  bom. 

1  had  gone  my  round  through  Ihe  rooms,  and,  little  disposed  to 
he  social,  had  crept  into  the  retreat  of  a  window-niche,  pleased  to 
think  myself  screened  hy  its  draperies — not  ihat  I  was  melan- 
choly, far  from  it — I'm-  Ihe  letter  I  had  received  that  morning  from 
Lilian  had  raised  my  whole  being  into  a  sovereignty  of  happiness 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  young  pleasure-hunters  whose  voices 
laughter  blended  with  that  vulgar  music. 

To  read  her  letter  again  I  h  d  stolen  to  my  nook — and  BOW, 
sure  I  ha!  none  saw  me  kiss  it.  I  replaced  it  in  my  bosom.  I  looked 
through  the  parted  curtain  :  !l  e  room  was  comparatively  empty: 
hut  there,  through  ihe  open  folding  doors,  1  saw  the  gay  crowd 
gathered  round  the  dancers;  and  there  again,  at  right  angles,  a 
vista  along  the  corridor  afforded  a  glimpse  of  Ihe  great  elephant 
in  the  deserted  museum. 

Presently  I  heard,  close  heside  me.  my  host's  voice. 

"  Here's  a  cool  corner,  a  pleasant  sofa,  you  can  have  it  alf  to 
yourself;  what  an  honor  to  receive  you  under  my  roof,  and  on 
this  interesting  occasion  !  Yes.  as  you  say.  great  changes  are  here 
since  you  left  us.  Society  is  much  improved.  I  must  look  about 
and  find  some  persons  to  introduce  to  you.  Clever!  oh,  J  know 
your  tastes.  We  have  a  wonderful  man — a  new  doctor.  Carries 
all  before  him — a  very  high  character,  too — good  old  family — 
greatly  looked  up  to,  even  apart  from  his  profession.  Dogmatic  a 
little — a  Sir  Oracle — 'Lets  no  dog  bark;'  you  remember  the  quo- 
3 


114  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

tation— Shakspeare.     Where  on  earth  is  he  ?     My  dear  Sir  Philip, 
I  am  sure  you  wou'd  enjoy  his  conversation." 

Sir  Philip  !  Could  it.  be  Sir  Philip  Derval  to  whom  the  mayor 
Was  giving  a  flattering,  yet  scarcely  propitiatory  description  of 
myself?  Curiosity,  combined  with  a  sense  of  propriety,  in  not 
keeping  myself  an  unsuspected  listener  :  I  emerged  from  the 
curtain,  hul  silently,  and  reached  the  centre  of  tne  room  before 
the  mayor  perceived  me.  He  then  came  up  to  me  eagerly,  linked 
Ids  arm  in  mine,  and  leading  me  to  a  gentleman  seated  on  a  sofa 
close  by  the  window  I  had  quitted,  said  : 

"  Doctor,  I  must  present  you  to  Sir  Philip  Derval,  just  return- 
ed to  England,  and  not  six  hours  in  L .     If  you  would  like  to 

see  the  museum  again,  Sir  Philip,  the  doctor,  I'm  sure,  will  ac- 
company you." 

"  No,  I  thank  you  ;  it  is  painful  to  me  at  present  to  see,  even 
under  your  roof,  the  collection  which  my  poor  dear  friend,  Dr. 
Lloyd,  was  so  proudly  beginning  to  form  when  I  left  these  parts." 

'•  Ay,  Sir  Philip — Dr.  Lloyd  was  a  worthy  man  in  his  way,  but 
sadly  duped  in  his  latter  years  :  took  tu  mesmerism,  only  think. 
But  our  young  doctor  here  showed  him  up,  I  can  tell  you."    • 

Sir  Philip,  wins  had  acknowledged  my  lirst  introduction  to  his 
acquaintance  by  the  quiel  courtesy  with  which  a  we  1-bred  man 
goes  through  a  ceremony  which  custom  enables  him  to  endure 
with  equal  ease  and  indifference,  now  evinced  by  a  slight  cha 
of  manner  how  little  the  mayor's  reference  to  my  dispute  with 
Dr.  Lloyd  advanced  me  in  his  good  opinion.  He  turned  away 
with  a  bow  more  formal  than  his  iirst  one.  and  said,  calmly, 

"  I  regret  to  hear  that  a  man  so  simple-minded  and  so  sensitive 
as  Dr.  Lloyd  should  have  provoked  an  encounter  in  which  I  can 
well  conceive  him  to  have  been  worsted.  With  your  leave,  Mr. 
Mayor.  I  will  look  into  your  ball-room.  I  may  perhaps  find  there 
some  old  acquaintances.." 

He  walked  toward  tiie  dancers,  and  the  mayor,  linking  his  arm 
in  mine,  followed  close  behind,  saying,  in  his  loud,  hearty  tones, 

"Come  along,  you  too.  Dr.  Fenwick,  my  girls  are  here  ;  you 
have  not  spoken  to  them  yet." 

Sir  Philip  who  was  then  half-way  across  the  room,  turned 
round  abruptly,  and  looking  me  full  in  the  face,  said, 

"  Fenwick,  is  your  name  Fenwick  ? — Allen  Fenwick  ? " 

"  That  is  my  name,  Sir  Philip." 

"  Then  permit  me  to  shake  you  by  the  hand  ;  you  are  no 
stranger,  and  no  mere  acquaintance  to  me.  Mr.  Mayor,  we  will 
look  into  your  ball-room  later  ;  do  not  let  us  keep  you  now  from 
your  other  guests." 

The  mayor,  not  in  the  least  offended  by  being  thus  summarily 
dismissed,  smiled,  walked  on,  and  was  soon  lost  among  the  crowd. 

Sir  Philip,  still  retaining  my  baud,  reseated  himself  on  the 
sofa,  and  I  took  my  place  by  his  side.     The  room  was  still  de- 


A    STRANGE    JTI'ORY.  Ii5 

scried  :  row  and  then  a  straggler  from  the  ball-ro»m  looked  in  for 
amomenj.,  and  then  sauntered  back  to  the  centra   place  of  attrac- 

rion.  • 

"I  am  trying  to  guess,"  said  I,  "bow  my  name  should  be 

known  to  you.  Possibly  you  may.  in  some  visit  to  the  ]  akes, 
have  known  my  father?" 

"No;  I  know  none  of  your  nanii*  but  .yourself — if,  indeed,  as 
iVloubt  not,  you  are  the  Allen  Fenwiek  to  whom  I  owe  no  small 
obligation.  You  were  a  medical  student  at  Edinburgh  in  the 
year  *  *  *  I" 

"Yes." 

"So  !  At  that  time  there  was  also  at  Edinburgh  a  3  oang  man, 
named  Richard  Strahan.  tie  lodged  in  a  fourth  flat  in  the  old 
town." 

"  1  remember  him  very  well." 

"And  yon  remember,  also,  that  a  fire  broke  out  at  night  in  the 
house  in  which  he  lodged;  that  when  it  was  discovered  there 
seemed  no  hope  of  saving  him.  The  flames  wrapped  the  lower 
part  of  the  house;  the  staircase  had  given  way.  A  boy,  scarcely 
so  old  as  himself,  was  the  only  human  being  in  the  crowd  who 
dared  to  scale  the  ladder,  thai  even  then  scarcely  reached  the 
windows  from  which  the  smoke  rolled  in  volumes;  that  hoy  pene- 
trated into  the  room — found  I  he  inmate  almost  insensible — rallied, 
supported,  dragged  him  to  the  window — got  him  on  the  ladder — 
saved  his  life  then-»-and  his  life  later,  by  nursing  with  a  woman's 
tenderness,  through  the  fever  caused  by  terror  and  excitement, 
the  fellow  creature  he  had  rescued  by  a  man's  daring.  The  name 
of  that  gallant  student  was  Allen  Fenwiek,  and  Richard  Strahan 
is  my  nearest  living  relation.     Are  we  friends  now  ?" 

i  answered  confusedly.  1  had  almost  forgotten  the  circum- 
stance referred  to-  Richard  Strahan  had  not  been  one  of  my 
moie  intimate  companions,  and  1  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of  him 
since  leaving  eollege-     1  inquired  what  had  become  of  him. 

"lie  is  a,  the  Scotch  bar,"  said  Sir  Philip,  "and  of  course 
without  practice.  I  understand  that  be  has  fair  average  abilities, 
but  no  application.  If  ]  am  rightly  informed  he  is,  however,  a 
thoroughly  honorable,  upright  man,  ami  of  an  affectionate  and 
grateful  disposition." 

"  I  can  answer  for  all  you  have  said  in  his  praise.  lie  had  the 
qualities  you  name  too  deeply  rooted  in  youth  to  have  lost  them 
now." 

Sir  Philip  remained  for  some  moments  in  a  musing  silence. — 
And  I  took  advantage  of  that  silence  to  examine  him  with  more 
minute  attention  than  1  bail  done  before,  much  as  the  first  sight 
of  1  im  had  struck"  me. 

lie  was  somewhat  below  the goommon  height  So  delicately 
formed  that  you  might  ca  1  him  rati  er-fragile  than  slight.  But  in 
his  carriage  and  air  there  was  a  remarkable  dignity.     His  counte- 


1]6  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

nance  was  at  direct  variance  with  his  figure.  For  as  delicacy  was 
the  attribute  of  the  last,  so  power  was  fcably  the  character- 

istic of  the  first,  He  looked  full  the  age  tin'  steward  had  ascribed 
tebina — about  forty-eight ;  at  a  superficial  glance,  more ;  for  his 
hair  was  prematurely  white — not  gray,  but  white  as  snow.  But 
his  eyebrows  were  still  jet  black,  and  his  eyes,  equally  dark,  were 
serenely  bright,  His  fqrehesd  was  .magnificent ;  lofty  and  spa-. 
cious,  and  with  only  one  slight  wrinkle  between  the  brows.  IHs 
complexion  was  sunburned,  shewing  no  sign  of  weak  health.  The 
outline  of  his  lips  was  that  which  I  have  often  remarked  in  men 
accustomed  to  great  dangers,  and  contracting  in  such  dangers  the 
habit  of  self-reliance ;  firm  and  quiet,  compressed  without  an 
effort.  And  the  power  of  this  very  noble  countenance  was  not 
intimidating,  not  aggressive  ;  it  was  mild — it  was  benignant,  A 
man  oppressed  by  some  formidable  tyranny,  ami  despairing  to  find 
a  protector,  would,  on  seeing  that  face,  have  said,  "  Here  is  one 
who  can  protect  me,  and  who  will !  " 

Sir  Philip  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  bftve  sa  many  relations  scattered  over  England  that  fortu- 
nately not  one  of  them  can  venture  to  calculate  on  my  property  if 
1  die  childless,  and  therefore  not  one  of  them  can  feel  himself  in- 
jured when  a  few  weeks  hence  he  shall  read  in  the  newspapers  that 
Sir  Philip  Derval  is  married.  But  for  Richard  Straban,  at  least, 
■h  I  never  saw  him,  I  must   do  something  befi  news- 

papers make  that  announcement.     His  sister  was  w;  mt." 

"  Your  neighbors,  Sir  Philip,  will  rejoice  at  your  m  ince, 

I  -presume,  it  may  induce  you  to  settle  among  them  at  Derval 
Court." 

"At  Derval  Court  i  No!  1  shall  not  settle  there."  Again  he 
paused  a  moment,  or  so,  and  then  went  on.  "I  have  long  lived  a 
wandering  life,  and  in  it  learned  much  iiiat  the  wisdom  of  cities 
it  teach.  I  return  to  my  native  land  wiih  a  profound  convic- 
ii,,n  ihat  the  haiq  iest  life  is  the  life  most  in  common  with  all.  I 
have   gone  my   way   to    do  what   I   deemed  good,  ami  to 

avert  or  mitigate  what  appeared  to  me  evil.     I  pause  ind  ask 

myself,  whether  the  most  virtuous  existence,  be  not  that  in  which 
virtue  "flows  spontaneously  from  the  springs  of  quiet,  everyday  ac- 
tion ;  when  a  man  does  good  without  restlessly  seeking  it,  does  good 
unconsciously,  simply  because  he  is  good  and  he  lives?  Better, 
perhaps,  for  me  if  I  had  thought  so  long  ago  !  And  now  I  come 
bad;  to  England  with  the  intention  of  marrying,  late  in  life  though 
it  be,  and  with  such  hopes  of  happiness  as  any  matter-of-fact  man 
may  form.  But  my  home  will  not  be  at  Derval  e'ourt.  I  shall 
reside  either  in  London  or  its  immediate  neighborhood,  and  seek  to 
gather  round  me  minds  by  which  I  can  correct,  if  J  cannot  confide, 
the  knowledge  I  myself  have  acquired." 

"Nay,  if,  as  I  have  accidentally  heard,  you  are  fond  of  scientific 
pursuits,  I  cannot  wonder  that  after  so  long  an  absence  from  Eng- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  117 

land,  you  should  foci  interest  in  learning  what  new  disci  ivories 
have  been  made,  wind  new  ideas  are,  unfolding  the  germs  of  dis- 
coveries yet  to  be.  Bui  pardon  me  if.  in  answer  to  your  coil 
ing  remark,  I  venture  to  say  that  no  man  can  hope  to  correct  any 
error  in  his  own  knowledge,  unless  he  lias  the  courage  to  confide 
.  the  error  to  those  who  can  correct.  La  Place  has  satd,  '  Tout  ae 
>  ticnt  thins  hi  c.'/aine  immense  des  verities  ; '  and  the  mistake  we 
make  in  some  science  we  have  specially  cultivated  is  often  only  to 
he  seen  hy  the  light  dfa  se]  arate  science  as  specially  cultivated  by 
another.  Thus,  in  the  investigation  of  troth,  frank  exposition  to 
congenial  minds  is  essential  to  the  earnest  seel 

"I  am  pleased  with  what*  you  say,"  said  Sir  Philip,  "and  1 
shall  he  still  more  pleased  to  find  in  you  the  very  confident  I  re- 
quire. But  what  was  your  controversy  with  my  old  friend  Dr. 
Lloyd?  Do  I  understand  our  host  rightly,  thai  it  related  to  what 
in  Europe  has  of  late  days  obtained  the  name  of  mesmerism?  " 

I  had  conceived  a  strong  desire  to  conciliate  the  good  opinion  of 
a  man  who  had  treated  me  with  so  singular  and  so  familiar  a  kind- 
ness, and  it  was  sincerely  that  T  expressed  my  regrel  at  the  acerbity 
With  which  I  had  assailed  Dr.  Lloyd  ;  hut  on  his  theories  and  pre- 
tensions I  could  not  disguise  my  contempt.  1  enlarged  an  the  ex- 
travagant fallacies  involved  in  a  fabulous  "  clairvoyance,"  which 
always  failed  when  plain  test    by  sober-minded  examiners. 

1  did  not  den}  s  of  imagination  on  certain  nervous  con- 

stitutions. "  Mesmerism  could  cure  nobody  ;  credulity  could  cure 
■  was  the  well-known  storj  of  the  old  woman  tried 
as  a  witch  ;  she  cured  agues  hy  a,  bharm  ;  she  owned  the  impeach- 
ment, and  was  ready  to  endure  gibbel  or  stake  for  the  truth  of  her 
talisman — more  than  a  mesmerist,  would  for  the  truth  of  his 
passes  !  And  the  charm  toas  a  scroll  of  gibberish  sewn  in  an  old 
and  given  to  the  woman  in  a  freak  by  the  judge  himself  when 
a  young  scamp  on  the  circuit.  But  the  charm  cured  '.  Certainly; 
just  as  mesmerism  cures.  Fools  believed  in  it.  Faith,  that  moves 
mountains,  may  well  cure  ague: 

Thus  J  ran  on,  supporting  my  views  with  anecdotes  and  facts,  to 
which  Sir  Philip  listened  with  placid  gravity. 

When  I  had  come  to  an  end,  he  said,  "  Of  mesmerism,  as 
practised  in  Europe,  I  know  nothing,  except  by  report.  I  can  well 
understand,  that  medical  men  may  hesitate  to  admit  it  among  the 
legitimate  resources  of  orthodox  pathology;  because,  as  1  gather 
from  what  you  and  others  say  of  its  practice,  it  must,  at  the  best, 
he  hir  too  uncertain  in  its  application  to  satisfy  the  requirements 
of  science.  Vet  an  examination  of  iis  pretensions  may  enable 
you  to  perceive  the  truth  that  lies  hid  in  the  .powers  ascribed  to 
wiiehcraft  ;  henevolence  is  but  a  weak  agency  compared  to  malig- 
nity ;  magnetism  perverted  to  evil  may  solve  half  the  riddl 
sorcery.  On  this,  however,  1  say  no  more  at  present.  But  as  to 
that  which  you  appear  to  reject  as  the  most  preposterous1  and  in- 


118  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

credible  pretension  of  the  mesmerists,  and  which  you  designate  by 
the  word  '  clairvoyance,'  it  is  clear  to  me  that  you  have  never  your- 
self witnessed  even  those  very  imperfect  exhibitions  which  you 
decide  at  once  to  be  imposture.  I  say  imperfect,  because  it  is  only 
a  limited  number  of  persons  whom  the  eye  or  the  passes  of  the 
mesmerist  can  affect,  and  by  such  means,  unaided  by  other  means, 
it  is  rarely  indeed  that  the  magnetic  sleep  advances  beyond  the 
first  vague,  shadowy  twilight  dawn  of  that  condition  to  which  only 
in  its  fuller  developments  I  would  apply  the  name,  of  'trance.' 
But  still  trance  is  as  essential  a  condition  of  being  as  sleep  or  as 
waking,  haying  privileges  peculiar  to  itself.  ,  By  means  will) in  the 
range  of  the  science  that  explores  iks  nature  and  its  laws,  trance, 
unlike  l\\^  clairvoyance  you  describe,  is  producible  in  every  human 
being,  however  unimpressible  to  mere  mesmerism." 

"  Producible  in  every  human  being  !  Pardon  me  if  I  say,  that 
I  will  give  any  enchanter  his  own  terms  who  will  produce  that 
effect  upon  me." 

"Will  you?  You' consent  to  have  the  experiment  tried  on 
yourself? " 

"  Consent  most  readily." 

"  1  will  remember  that  promise.  But  to  return  to  i  lie  subject. 
By  the  word  trance  I  do  not  mean  exclusively  the  spiritual  trance 
of  the  Alexandrian  Platonists.  There  is  one. kind  of  trance — that 
to  which  all  human  beings  are  susceptible — in  which,  the  soul  has 
no  share  ;  for  of  this  kind  of  trance,  and  it  was  of  this  I  spoke, 
some  of  (he  inferior  animals  are  susceptible;  and,  therefore,  trance 
is  no  more  a  proof  of  soul  than  is  the  clairvoyance  of  the  mesmer- 
ists, or  the  dream  of  our  ordinary  sleep,  which  last  lias  been  called 
a  proof  of  soul,  though  any  nwm  who  has  kept  a  dog  must  have 
observed  that  dogs  dream  as  vividly  as  We  do.  Bu1  in  this  trance' 
there  is  an  extraordinary  cerebral  activity — a  projectile  force  given 
to  the  mind — distinct  from  the  soul — by  which  it  sends  forth  its 
own  emanations  to  a  distance  in  spite  of  material  obstacles,  just  as 
a  flower,  in  an  altered  condition  of  atmosphere,  sends  forth  the 
particles  of  its  aroma.  This  should  not  surprise  you.  Your 
thought  travels  over  land  and  sea  in  your  waking  state;  thought, 
too,  can  travel  in  trance,  and  in  trance  may  acquire  an  intensified 
force.  There  is,  however,  another  kind  of  trance  which  is  truly 
called  spiritual,  a  trance  much  more  rare,  and  in  which  the  soul 
entirely  supercedes  the  mere  action  of  the  mind." 

" Stay,'' said  I,  "you  speak  of  the  soul  as  something  distinct 
from  the  mind.  What  the  soul  may  be  I  cannot  pretend  to  con- 
jecture.    But  I  cannot  separate  it  from  the  intelligence  !  " . 

"Can  you  not?  A  blow  on  the  brain  can.  destroy  the  intelli- 
gence ;  do  you  think  it  can  destroy  the  soul  ?  It  is  recorded  of 
Newton,  that,  in  the  decline  of  his  life,  his  mind  had  so  worn  out 
its  functions  that  his  own  theorems  had  become  to  him  unintelli- 
gible    Can  you  suppose  that  Newton's  soul  was  as  worn  out  as  his 


A    STRAXGE    STORY.  119 

mind  ?  If  you  canaot  distinguish  mind  from  soul,  I  know  not  by 
what  rational  inductions  you  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  the  soul 
is  imperishable." 

I  remained  silfcnt.  Sir  Philip  fixed  on  me  his  dark  eyes  quietly 
and  saarchinglyj  and  after  a  short  pause  said: 

"Almost  every  known  bqdy  in  nature  is  suseeptible  of  three 
several  states  of  existence — the  solid,  the  liquid,  the  aeriform. 
These  conditions  depend  on  the  quantity  of  heat  they  oohtain. 
The  same  object  at  one  moment  may  be  liquid,  at  the  nexi  mo- 
ment solid,  at  the  next  aeriform.  The  water  that  flows  before  your 
gaze  may  stop  consolidated  into  ioe,  or  ascend  into  air  as  vapor. 
Tims  is  man  susceptible  of  three  states  of  existence — the  animal, 
the  menial,  the  spiritual — and  according  as  be  is  brought  in > 
lation  or  affinity  with  that  occult  agency  of  the  whole  natural 
world,  which  we  familiarly  call  11  HAT.  and  which  no  science  has 
splained;  which  no  scale  can  weigh,  and  no  eye  discern;  one 
or  the  other  of  these  three  states  of  being  prevails  or  is  subjected." 

I  still  continued  silent,  for  I  was  unwilling  discourteously  to  say 
to  a  stranger,  so  much  older  than  myself,  that  be  seemed  to  me  to 
reverse  all  the  maxims  of  (lie  philosophy  to  which  be  made  pre- 
tence, in  founding  speculations  audacious  and  abstruse  upon  un- 
analogous  comparisons  that,  would  have  been  fantastic  even  in  a 
poet.  And  Sir  Philip,  after  another  pause,  resumed  with  a  half 
smile  : 

"After  what  I  have  said,  if  will  perhaps  not  very  much  surprise 
you  when  L  add  that  but  for  my  belief  iu  the  powers  I  ascribe  to 
trance,  we  should  not  be  known  to  each  other  at  tins  moment." 

"How? — pray  explain'." 

"Certain  circumstances,  which  I  trust  to  relate  to  you  in  detail 
hereafter,  have  imposed  on  me  the  duty  to  discover,  and  to  bring 
human  laws  to  bear  upon,  a  creature  armed  with  terrible  powers  of 
evil.  This  monster — fur,  without  metaphor,  monster  it  is,  not  man 
like  ourselves — has,  by  arts  superior  to  those  of  ordinary  fugitives, 
however  dexterous  in  concealment,  bitherto.for  years  eluded  my  re- 
search. Through  the  trance  of  an  Arab  child,  who  in  her  waking 
state  never  beard  of  its  existence,  I  have  learned  that  this  being  is 

in  England — is  in  L .     I  am  here  to  encouufer  him.     I  expect 

to  do  so  this  very  night,  and  under  this  very  roof." 

"  Sir  Philip  !  " 

'•  And  if  you  wonder,  as  well  you  may.  why  I  bave  been  talking 
to  you  with  tins  startling  unreserve,  know  that  this  same  Arab 
child,  on  whom  I  thus  implicitly  rely,  informs  me  that  your  life  is 
mixed  up  with  that  of  the  being  I  seek  to  unmask  and  disarm — to 
be  destroyed  by  bis  arts  or  his  agents — or  to  combine  in  the  causes 
by  which  the  destroyer  himself  shall  be  brought  to  destruction." 

"My  life! — your  Arab  child  mined  me,  Allen  Feriwick  I" 

"My  Arab  child  told  me  that  the  person  in  whom  I  should  thus 
naturally  seek  an  ally  was  be  who  had  saved  the  life  of  the  man 


120  A    STKANGE    STORY. 

whom  T  then  meant  for  my  heir,  if  I  died  unmarried  and  childless. 
She  told  me  that  I  should  not  be  many  hours  in  this  town,  which 
she  described  minutely,  before  you  would  be  made  known  to  me. 
She  described  this  house,  with  yonder  lights  and  yon  dancers.  In 
her  trance  she  saw  us  sitting-  together,  as  now  we  lit.  I  accepted 
the  invitation  of  our  host  when  he  suddenly  accosted  me  on  entering 
the  town,  confident  that  I  should  meet  you  here  without  even  ask- 
ing whether  a  person  of  your  name  was  a  resident  in  the  place;  and 
now  you  know  why  I  have  so  freely  unbosomed  myself  of  much 
that  might  well  make  you,  a  physician,  doubt  the  soundness  of  my 
understanding.  The  same  infant,  whose  vision  has  been  realized 
up  to  this  -monlent,  has  warned  me  also  that  I  am  here  at  great 
peril.  What  that  peril  may  he  I  have  declined  to  learn,  as  I  have 
ever  declined  to  ask  from  the  future  what  effects  only  my  cwn  life 
on  this  earth..  That  life  I  regard  with  supreme  indifference;  con- 
scious that  I  have  only  to  discharge,  Avhile  it  lasts,  the  duties  for 
which  it  is  imposed  on  me  to  the  best  of  my  imperfect  power;  and 
aware  that  minds  the  strongest  and  souls  the  purest  may  fall  into 
the  sloth  habitual  to  predestinarians  if  they  suffer  the  actions  due  to 
the  present  hour  to  be  awed  and  paralyzed  by  some  grim  shadow 
on  the  future  !  It  is  only  where,  irrespectively  of  aught  that  can 
menace  myself,  a  light  not  struck  out  of  my  own  reason  can  guide 
me  to  disarm  evil  or  minister  to  good,  that  I  feel  privileged  to 
myself  of  those  mirrors  on  which|thingS,  near  and  far,  reflect  them- 
selves calm  and  distinct  as  the  banks  and  the  mountain  peaks  are 
reflected  in  the  glass  of  a  lake.     Here,  then,  under  this  roof,  and 

by  your  side,  I  shall  behold  him  who Lo !  the  moment  has 

come — I  behold  him  now  !  " 

As  he  spoke  these  last  words  Sir  Philip  had  risen,  and,  startled 
by  his  action  and  voice,  I  involuntarily  rose  too. 

Resting  one  hand  on  my  shoulder,  he  pointed  with  the  other  to- 
ward the  threshold  of  the  ball-room.  There,  the  prominent  figure 
of  a  gay  group — the  sole  male  amidst  a  fluttering  circle  of  silks 
and  lawn,  of  flowery  wreaths,  of  female  loveliness,  and  female  frip- 
pery— stood  the  radiant  image  of  Margrave.  His  eyes  were  not 
turned  toward  us.  He  was  looking  down,  and  his  light  laugh  came 
soft,  yet  ringing,  through  the  general  murmur. 

I  turned  my  astonished  gaze  back  to  Sir  Philip — yes,  unmis- 
takably it  was  on  Margrave  that  his  look  was  fixed. 

Impossible  to  associate  crime  with  the  image  of  that  fair  youth  ! 
Eccentric  notions — fantastic  speculations — vivacious  egotism — 
defective  benevolence — yes.     But  crime  !     Xo — impossible. 

"  Impossible  ! "  I  said,  aloud.  As  I  spoke  the  group  had  moved 
on.  Margrave  was  no  longer  in  sight.  At  the  same  moment  some 
other  guests  came  from  the  ball-room  and  seated  themselves  near 
us. 

Sir  Philip  looked  round,  and  observing  the  deserted  museum^ at 
the  end  of  the  corridor,  drew  me  into  it. 


A    STRAXOR    STORY.  121 

When  we  were  alone  ho  said  In  a  voice  quick  and  low,  but  de- 
cided : 

"It  is  of  importance  that  I  should  convince  you  at  once  of  ihe 
nature  of  thai  prodigy  which  is  more  hostile  to  mankind  than  the 
wolf  is  to  the  sbeepfold.  No  words  of  mine  could  al  presenl  suffice 
to  clear  your  sight  from  the  deception  which  cheats  it.  I  must. 
enable  ydu  to  judge  for  yourself.  It  .must  he  now,  and  here.  He 
will  learn  this  night,  if  he'has  nbt;leamed  already,  that  1  am  in  the 
town.  Dim  and  confused  though  his  memories  of  myself  may  be, 
they  are  memories  still;  and  be  well  knows  what  cause  he  has  to 
:  me.  I  must  put  another  in  possession  of  his  secret.  Another, 
and  a  Fof  all  his  arts  will  be  brought  to  hear  againsl  me, 

and  I  cannot  foretell  its  issue.  .Go.then;  enter  thai  giddy  crowd — 
select  that  seeming  young  man — brjng  him  hither.  Take  care  only 
riot  to  mention"  my  name;  and  when  here,  turn  the  key  in  the  door, 
so  as  to  prevent  interruption — five  minutes  will  suffice." 

•'Am  1  sure  that  I  guess  whom  you  mean?     The  young  light- 
hearted  man,  known  in  this  place  under  the  name  of  Margrave  I 
The  Voting  man  with  the  radiant    eves,  and  the  curls  of  a  Gre 
e?"  ' 

••  The  same  ;  him  whom  1  pointed  out ;  quick,  bring  him  hither." 
.  Curiosity  Was  loo  much  roused  to  disohey.  Had  I  conceived 
that  Margrave,  in  the  heat  of  youth,  had  committed  some  offence 
which  placed  him  in  danger  of  the  law  and  in  the  power  of  Sir 
Philip  Derval,  I  possessed  enough  of  the  old  borderers'  black-mail 
loyalty  unhavo  given  to  the  man  whose  hand  1  had  familiarly 
clasped  a  hint  ami  a  help  to  escape.  But  all  Sir  Philip's  talk  had 
30  out  of  the  reach  of  common  sense,  that  I  rather  expected 
to  see  him  confounded  by  some  egregious  illusion  than  Margrave 
exposed  to  any  well-rounded  accusation.  All,  then,  that  I  fell 
as  1  walked  into  the  hall-room  and  approached  Margrave,  was 
leal  curiosity  which,  I  think,  any  one  of  my  readers  will  acknowl- 
edge that,  in  my  position,  he  himself  would  have  felt. 

Margrave  was  standing  near  the  dancers,  not  joining  them,  hut 
talking  with  a  young  couple  in  the  ring.     I  drew  him  aside. 

"(Vine  with  me  for  a  few  minutes  into  the  museum  ;    I  wish   to 
talk  with  you."    ■ 

"  What  about  >  an  experiment '?" 
8,  an  experiment." 

"Then  1  am  at  your  service." 

In  a  minute  more  he  had   followed    me   info    the  desolate,  dead 
museum.     1  looked  round  but  did  not  see  Sir  Philip. 


122  A    STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Margravk  threw  himself  on  a  seat  just  under  the  great  ana- 
conda ;  I  closed  and  locked  the  "door.  When  I  had  done  so,  my 
eye  fell  on  the  young  man's  face,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  that 
it  had  lost  its  color  ;  that  it  showed  great  anxiety,  great  distress  ; 
that  his  hands  were  visibly  trembling. 

"  What  is  this  1 "  he  said,  in  feeble  tones,  and  raising  himself 
half  from  his  seat  as  if.  with  great  effort.  "  Help  me  up — come 
away  !  Something  in  this  room  is  hostile  to  me— hostile,  over- 
powering !     What  can  it  be  1  " 

"  Truth  and  my  presence,"  answered  a  stern,  low  voice  ;  and 
Sir  Philip  Derval,  whose  slight  form  the  huge  bulk  of  the  dead 
elephant  had  before  obscured  from  my  view,  came  suddenly  out 
from  the  shadow  into  the  full  rays  of  the  lamps  which  lit  up,  as  if 
for  Man's  revel,  that  mocking  tomb  for  the  playmates  of  nature 
which  he  enslaves  for  his  service  or  slays  for  his  sport.  As  Sir 
Philip  spoke  and  advanced,  Margrave  sank  back  into  his  seat, 
shrinking,  collapsing,  nerveless  ;  terror  the  most  abject  expressed 
in  his  staring  eyes  and  parted  lips.  On  the  other  hand,  the  simple 
dignity  of  Sir  Philip  Derval's  bearing,  and  the  mild  pojyer  of  his 
countenance,  were  alike  inconceivably  heightened.  A  change  had 
come  over  the  whole  man,  the  more  impressive  because  wholly 
undefinable. 

Halting  opposite  Margrave,  he  uttered  some  words  in  a  language 
unknown  to  me,  and  stretched  one  hand  over  the  young  man's 
head.  Margrave  at  once  became  stiff  and  rigid,  as  if  turned  to 
stone.     Sir  Philip  said  to  me, 

"  Place  one  of  those  lamps  on  the  floor — there,  by  his  feet." 

I  took  down  one  of  the  colored  lamps  from  the  mimic  tree  round 
which  the  huge  anaconda  coiled  its  spires,  and  placed  it  as  I  was 
,told. 

"Take  the  seat  opposite  to  him,  and  watch."    • 

I  obeyed. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Philip  had  drawn  from  his  breast-pocket  a  small 
steel  casket,  and  1  observed,  as  he  opened  it,  that  the  interior  was 
subdivided  into  several  compartments,  each  with  its  separate  lid; 
from  one  of  these  he  took  and  sprinkled  over  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
a  few  grains  of  powder,  colorless  and  sparkling  as  diamond  dust : 
in  a  second  or  so  a  delicate  perfume,  wholly  unfamiliar  to  my  sense, 
rose,  from  the  lamp. 

"  You  would  test  the  condition  of  trance — test  it,  and  in  the 
spirit." 


w 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  12  3 

And  as  he  spoke  his  hand  rested  lightly  on  my  head.     Hitherto, 

surprise  *not  unmixed  with  awe,  I  had  preserved  a  certain 

defiance,  a  certain  distrust.      I  had  been,  as  it  were,  on  my  guard. 

But  as  those  words  were  spoken,  as  that  hand  rested  on  my 
head,  as  that  perfume  arose  from  the  lanlp,  al!  power  of  will  de- 
serted me.  My  first  sensation  was  that  of  passive  subjugation, 
hut  soon  1  was  aware  of  a  strange  intoxicating  "effect  from  the 
odor  of  the  lamp,  round  which  there  now  played  a  dazzling  vapor. 
The  room  swam  before  me.  Like  a  ma::  oppressed  by  a  nig 
mare,  I  tried  to  move,  to  cry  mil — feeling  that  to  do  so  would 
suffice  to*  burst  the  thrall  that  bound  me  ;   in  vain. 

A  time  that  seemed  to  me  inexorably  long,  but  which,  as  I 
found  afterward,  could  only  have  occupied  a  few  seconds,  elapsed 
in  this  preliminary  state,  which,  however  powerless,  was  not  with- 
out a  vague  luxurious  sense  of  delight.  And  then  suddenly  came 
pain — pain,  that  in  rapid  gradations  passed  into  a  rending  agony. 
Ivo;y  bone,  sinew,  rienve,  fibre  of  the  body,  seemed  as  if  wrenched 
.  and  as  if  some  hitherto  unconjectiired  Presence  in  the  vital 
organization  were  forcing  itself  to  light  with  all  the  pangs  of  travail. 
The  veins  seemed  swollen  to  bursting,  the  heart  laboring  to  main- 
tain its  action  by  fierce  spasms.  I  fee!  in  this  description  how 
language  fails  me.  Enough  that  the  anguish  I  then  endured  sur- 
passed all  that  1  have  ever  experienced  of  physical  pain.  This 
dreadful  interval  subsided  as  suddenly  as  it  had  commenced.  I 
felt  as  if  a  something  (indefinable  by  any  name  had  rushed  from 
me,  and  in  that  rush  thatf  a  struggle  was  over,  1  was  sensible  of 
the  passive  bliss  which  attends  the  fcelease  from  torture,  and  then 
there  grew  mi  me  a  wonderful  cairn,  and  in  that  calm  a  conscious- 
ness of  some  lofty  intelligence  immeasurably  beyond  that  which 
human  memory  gathers  from  earthly  knowledge.  1  Saw  before  me 
the  still  rigid  form  of  Margrave,  and  my  sight  seemed  with  ease 
to  penetrate  through  its  covering  of  flesh  and  to  survey  the  me- 
chanism of.the  whole  interior  being. 

"View  that  tenement  of  clay  which  now  seems  so  fair,  as  it 
was  when  last  I  beheld  it,  three  years  ago,  in  the  bouse  of  Haroun 
oi  Aleppo  '.  " 

I  looked,  and  gradually,  and  as  shade  after  shade  falls  on  the 
mountain-side,  while  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  sun  vanishes  at 
last,  so  the  form  and  face  on  which.  1  looked  changed  from  exu- 
berant youth  into  infirm  old  age.  The  discolored  wrinkled  skin. 
the  bleared  dim  eye.  the  flaccid  muscles,  the  brittle,  sap'ess  hones 
Nor  was  the  change  that  of  age  alone  ;  the  expression  t^\'  the 
countet  auce  had  passed  into  gloomy  discontent,  and  in  every  fur- 
row a  passion  or  a  vice  had  sown  the  seeds  of  grief. 

And  the  brain  now  opened  on  my  sight,  with  a  I  its  labyrinth  of 
Cells.      1  seemed  to  have  the  clew  to  every  winding  in  the  ma/ 

I  saw  therein  a  moral  world,  charred  and  ruined,  as,  in  stime 
fable  1  have  read,  the  world  of  the  moon  is  described  to  be;    yet 


n 


124  A    STRANGE    STORY.- 

witha!  it  was  a  brain  of  magnificent  formation.  The  powers  abused 
to  evil  had  been  original  y  of  rare  order;  imagination,  and  scope: 
the  energies  that  dare  ;  the  faculties  that  discover.  But  the  moral 
part  of  the  brain  had  failed  to  dominate  the  mental.  Defective 
veneration  of  what  is  good  or  great;  cynical  disdain  of  what  is 
right  and  just  ;  in  fine,  a  great  intellect  first  misguided,  then  per- 
verted, and  now  falling  with  the  decay  of  the  body  into  ghastly 
but  imposing  ruins  Such  was  the  world  of  that  brain  as  it  had 
been  three  years  ago.  And  still  continuing  to  gaze  thereon,  I 
observed  three  separate  emanations  of  light;  the  one  ofa#palered 
hue,  the  second  of  a  pale  azi;re,  the  third  a  silvery  spark. 

The  red  light,  which  grew  paler  and  paler  as  I  looked,  undulated 
from  the  brain  along  the  arteries,  the  veins,  the  nerves.  And  I 
murmured  to  myself,  "  Is  this  the  principle  of  animal  life?  " 

The  azure  light  equally  permeated  the  frame,  crossing  and  uniting 
with  the  red,  but  in  a  separate  and  distinct  ray,  exactly  as  in  the 
outer  world  a  ray  of  light  crosses' or  unites  with  a  _ray  of  heat, 
though  in  itself  a  separate  individual  agency.  And  again  I  mur- 
mured to  myself,  "Is  this  the  principle  of  intellectual  being,  di- 
recting or  influencing  that  of  animal  life ;  with  it,  yet  not  of  it  ?  " 

But  the  silvery  spark!  What  was  that  ?  Its  centre  seemed 
the  brain.  But  I  could  fix  it  to  no  single  organ.  Nay,  wherever 
I  looked  through  the  system,  it  reflected  itself  as  a  star  reflects  it- 
self upon  water.  And  I  observed  that  while  the  red  light  was 
growing  feebler  and  feebler,  and  the  azure  light  was  confused,  ir- 
regular— now  obstructed,  now  hufrying,  now  almost  lost — the  sil- 
very spark  was  unaltered,  undisturbed.  So  independent  of  all  which 
agitated  and  vexed  the  frame,  that  I  became  strangely  aware  that, 
if  the  heart  slopped  its  action,  and  the  red  light  died  out,  if  the 
brain  were  paralyzed,  that  energic  mind  smitten  into  idiocy,  and 
the  azure  light  wandering  objectless  as  a  meteor  wanders  over  the 
morass, — still  that  silver  spark  would  shine  the  same,  indestructi- 
ble by  aught  that  shattered  its  tabernacle.  And  I  murmured  to 
myself,  "Can  that  starry  spark  speak  the  presence  of  the  soul  ? 
Does  the  silver  light  shine  within  creatures  to  which  no  life  im- 
mortil  has  been  promised  by  Divine  Revelation  ?  " 

Involuntarily  I  turned  my  sight  toward  the  dead  forms  in  the 
motley  collection,  and  lo,  in  my  trance  or  my  vision,  life  returned 
to  them  all  i  To  the  elephant  and  the  serpent :  to  the  tiger,  the 
vulture,  the  beetle,  the  moth  ;  to  the  fish  and  the  polypus,  and  to 
yon  mockery  of  man  in  the  giant  ape. 

I  seemed  to  see  each  as  it  lived  in  its  native  realm  of  earth,  or 
of  air,  or  of  water;  and  the  red  light  played,  more  or  less  warm, 
through  the  structure  of  each,  and  the  azure  light,  though  duller  of 
hue,  seemed  to  shoot  through  the  red,  and  communicate  to  the 
creatures  an  intelligence  far  inferior  indeed  to  that  of  man,  but 
sufficing  to  conduct  the  current  of  their  will,  and  influence  the 
cunning  of  their  instincts.     But  in  none,  from  the  elephant  to  the 


A    STRANGE   STORY. 

moth,  from  the  bird  in  which  brain  was  the  largest  to  the  hybrid 

in  which  lift'  seemed  to  live  as  in  plants — in  none  was  visible  the 

starry  silver  spark.     I  turned  my  eyes  from  the  creatures  around, 

again  to  the  form  cowering  under  the  huge  anaconda,  and  in 

ir  at   the   animation  which  the   carcasses   took  in   the  awful 
illusions  of  that  marvelous  trance;  for  the  tiger  moved  as  if  scent- 
ing bipod,  and  In  the  eyes  of  the  serpent  the  dread  fascination 
1  slowly  returning. 

;ain  1  gazed  on  the  starry  spark  in  the  form  pf  the  man.     And 
I  murmured  to  myself,  "  Bui  if  this  be  the  soul,  why  is  it  so  un- 

irbed  and  undarkened  by  the  sins  which  have  left  such  I 
and  such   ravage  in  the  world  of  the  brain  .'"     And  gazing  yet 
more  intently  on   the  spark,  1   became  vaguely  aware  tliat   il 
not  the  soul,  but  the  halo  around  the  soul,  as  the  star  we  see  in 
heaven  is  not  the  star  itself,  but  its  circle  of  rays.     And  if  the  light 
itself  was  undisturbed  and  undarkened,  it   was    because    no    sins 
done  in  the  body  could  annihilate  its  essence,  nor  affect  the  ete 
of  its  duration.     The  ligJb.1  was  clear  within  the  ruins  of  its  lodg- 
ment, because  it  might  pass  away  but  could  not  be  extinguished. 

If,  in  the  heart  of  the  light;  reflected  back  on  my 
own  soul  within  me  its  ineffable  trouble,  humiliation,  and  sorrow; 
foi-  those  ghastly  wrecks  of  power  placed  at  its  sovereign  command 
il  was  responsible;  and,  appalled  by  its  own  sublime  fate  of  dura- 
tion, was  about  to  carry  into  eternity  the  account  of  its  mission  in 
time.  Vu  it  seemed  that  while  the  soul  was  still  there.  f 
forlorn  and  so  guilty,  even  the  wrecks  around  it  were  maj 
And  the  soul,  whatever  sentence  if  might  merit,  was  not  among 
the  hopelessly  lost.  For  in  its  remorse  and  in  its  shame  it  might 
still  have  retained  what  could  serve  for  redemption.  And  1  saw 
that  the  mind  was  storming  the  soul  in  some  terrible  rebellious 
war — ail  of  thought,  of  passion,  pf  desire,  through  which  the; 

poured   its   restless   How,  were  surging   up  round   the  starry 
in  siege.      And  I  could  not  comprehend  the  war,  nor 
guess  what  it  was  that  the  mind  demanded  the  soul  to  yield.  Only 
the  distim  ween  the  two   was  made  intelligible   by    I 

antagonism.  And  i  saw  that  the  soul,  sorely  tempted,  looked  afar 
for  escape  from  Hi''  subjects  it  had  ever  so  ill  controlled,  and  who 
sought  to  reduce  to  their  vassal  the  powerwhich  had  lost  authority 
as  their  kin,:.  1  could  feel  its  terror  in  the  sympathy  of  toy  own 
terror,  tin'  keenness  of  my  own  supplicating  pity.  1  knew  that  it 
was  imploring  release  from  the  perils  it   confessed  its  want  of 

gtb  to  encounter.     And  suddenly  the  starry  spi  from 

the  ruins  and  the  tumult  around  it — rose  into  space  and  vanished. 
And  where  my  soul  had  recognized  the  presence  of  soul  there  was 
a  void.  l!ui  the  red  lighl  burned  still,  becoming  more  ami  more 
vivid:  and  as  il  thus  repaired  and  recruited  its  lustre,  the  whole 
I  form  which  had  been  so  decrepid  grew  restored  from  decay, 
into  vigor  and  youth  ;  and  1  saw  Margrave  as  1  had  seen  him 


126  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

hi  the  walking  world,  the  radiant  image  of  animal  life  in  the  beauty 
of  its  fairest  bloom. 

And  over  this  rich  vitality  and  this  symmetric  mechanism  now 
reigned  only,  with  the  animal  life,  the  mind.  The  starry  light,  fled 
'and  the  soul  vanished,  still  was  left  visible  the  mind — mind,  by 
which  sensations  convey  and  cumulate  ideas,  and  muscles  obey 
volition;  mind,  as  in  those  animals  that  have  more  than  the  ele- 
mentary" instincts — mind  as  it  might  be  in  men,  were  men  not 
immortal.     As   my  eyes,  in  the  vision,  followed  the  azure  light, 

ulating  as  before  through  the  cells  of  the  brain,  and  crossing 
the  red  amidst  the  labyrinth  of  the  nerves,  I  perceived  that  the 
■nee  of  that  azure  light  had  undergone  a  change;  it  had  lost 
fchart  faculty  of  continuous  and  concentrated  power  by  which  man 
improves  on  the  works  of  the  past,  and  weaves  schemes  to  be  de- 
veloped in  the  future  of  remote  generations  ;  it  had  lost  all  sympa- 

in  I  he  past,  because  it  had  lost  all  conception  of  a  future 
beyOnd  the  grave  ;  it  had  lost  conscience,  it  had  lost  remorse.  The 
being  it  informed  was  no  longer  .  .    Mo  through  eternity  for 

the  employment  of  time.  The  azure  light  was  even  more  vivid  in 
certain  organs  useful  to  the  conservation  of  existence,  as  in  those 
organs  I  had  observed  it  more  vivid  among  some,  of  the  inferior 

lals  than  it  is  in  man — secre'tiveness,  destructiveiiess,  and  the 

read)-  perception  of  things  immediate  to  the  wants  of  the  day.     And 

the  azure  Light  was  brilliant  in  cerebral  cells,  where  before  it  had 

I  ,  such  as  those  which  harbor  mirthful, .ess  and  hope,  for 

e  the  light  was  recruited  by  the  exuhe.  yous 

lal  being.     But  it  was  lead-like,  or  dim,  in  the  great  social  or- 
whlch   man  suborns  his  own  interest   I  if  his 

dterly  lost  in  those  through  which  man  is  reminded  of 
his  duties  to  the  throne  of  his  Ma  . 

In   that  marvelous  pene'tration  with  which  the  Vi  I  .wed 

eived  that  in  this  mind,  though  in  energy  f 
many,  though  retaining,  from  memories  or  fch 
relics  of  a  culture  wide  and  in  somethings  profound;  though  sharp- 
and  quickened  into  formidable,  if  desultory,  force  whenever  it 
schemed  or  aimed  at  the  animal  self-conservation,  which  now 
made  its  master-impulse  or  instinct;  and  though  among  tiie  re- 
miniscences of  its  state  before  its  change  were  arts  which  I  could 
not  comprehend,  but  which  I  felt  were  dark  and  terrible,  lending 
to  a  will  never  checked  by  remorse,  arms  that  no  healthful  philoso- 
phy has  placed  in  the  arsenal  of  disciplined  genius;  though  the 
mind  in  itself  had  an  ally  in  a  body  as  perfect  in  strength  and 
elasticity  as  man  can  take  from  the  favor  of  nature — still,' I  say,  I 
felt  that  that  mind  wanted  the  something,  witheut  which  men  never 
could  found  cities,  frame  laws,  bind  together,  beautify,  exalt  the 
elements  of  this  world,  by  creeds  that  habitually  subject  them  to  a 
reference  to  another.  The  ant,  and  the  'nee,  and  the  beaver  con- 
gregate and  construct ;  but  they  do  not  improve.     Man  improves 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  127 

because  the  future  impels  onward  that  which  is  not  found  in  an 
ant,  the  bee,  and  the  beaver — that  which  lias  gone  from  the  being 
before  me. 

I  shrank  appalled  into  myself,  covered  my  face  with  my  hands, 
and  groaned  aloud:  "Have  I  ever  then  doubted  that  The  soul  is 
distinct  from  mind  ?" 

A  hand  here  again  touched  my  forehead,  the  light  in  the  lamp 
was  extinguished,  I  becante  insensible,  and  when  I  recovered  .1 
found  myself  back  in  the  room  in  which  T  had  lirst  conversed  with 
Sir  Philip  Derval.  and  seated,  as  before,  on  the  sola  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XXXII I. 

My  recollections  of  all  which  I  have  just  attempted  to  describe 
were  distinct  and  vivid;  except,  with  respect  to  time,  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  many  hours  must  have  elapsed  sinpe  I  had  entered  the 
museum  with  Margrave;  but  the  clock  on  the  mantleplece  mel  my 
eyes  as  1  turned  them  wistfully  round  the  room  ;  and  I  was  indeed 
amazed  to  perceive  that  five  minutes  had  sufficed  for  all  which  it 
has  taken  me  so  long  10  narrate,  and  which  in  their  transit  had 
hurried  me  through  ideas  and  emotions  so  remote  from  anterior 
experie 

To  my  astonishment,  now  succeeded  shame  and  indignation — 
r  that  1.  who  bad  scoffed  at  the  possibility  oftho  compara- 
tively credible  influences  of  mesmeric  action,  should  bave  been  so 

less  a  puppet  under  the  hand  of  the  slight,  feilow-man  b< 
me,  and  so  morbidly  impressed  by  phantasmagorical  illusions;  in- 
dignation thai  by  some  fumes  which  bad  special  potency  over  the 
brain,  1  bad  thus  been,  as  it  were,  conjured  out  of  my  senses;  and 
looking  full  into  the  calm  face  ai  my  side,  1  said,  with  a  smile  to 
which  1  soughl  to  convey  disdain: 

"  1  congratulate  you.  Sir  Philip  Derval,  on  having  learned  in 
your  travels  in  the  Mast  so  expert  a  familiarity  with  the  tricks  of 
i.>,  'Higglers. "' 

"The  East  has  a  proverb,"  answered  Sir  Philip,  quietly,  "that 
tiie  juggler  may  learn  much  from  the  dervish,  but  the  dervish  can 

learn  nothing  from  the  juggler.  You  will  pardon  me,  hbwev< 
the  effect  produced  OH  you  for  a  few  minutes,  whatever  the  cause 
of  il  may  be,  since  it  may  serve  to  guard  your  whole  life  from  cal- 
amities, to  which  it  might  otherwise  have  been  exposed.  And 
however  you  may  consider  that  which  you  have  just  experienced 
to  be  a  mere  optical  illusion,  or  the  figmenl  of  a  brain  super-ex- 
eiled  by  the  fumes  of  a  vapor,  look  within  yourself  and  tell  me  if 
you  do  uoL  feel  an  inward  and   unanswerable  conviction  that  there 


12  8  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

is  more  reason  to  slum  ami  to  fear  the  creature  you  left  asleep  un- 
tie dead  jaws  of  the  giant  serpent,  than  there  would  be  in  the 
lit  itself  could  the  venom  return  to  its  breath?" 
1  was  silent,  for  I  could  not  deny  that  that  conviction  had  come 
to  me. 

|*  Henceforth,  when  you  recover  from  the  confusion  or  anger 
which  now  disturbs  your  impressions,  you  will  be  prepared  to  listen 
to  my  explanations  and  my  recital,  iA  a  spirit  far  different  from 
that  with  which  you  would  have  received  them  before  you  were 
recited  U)  the  experiment,  which,  allow  me  to  remind  you,  you 
:!  and  defied.  You  will  now,  I  trust,  be  fitted  to  become  my 
confidant  and  assistant — you  will  advise  with  me  bow,  for  the  sake 
of  humanity,  we  should  act  together  against  the  incarnate  lie,  the 
anomalous  prodigy  which  glides  through  the  crowd  in  the  image 
of  joyous  beauty.  For  the  present  I  quil  you.  1  have  an  engage- 
ment on  worldly  affairs,  in  the  town   this  night.     I  am  staying  at 

I. ,  which  1  shall  leave  for  Derval  Court  to-morrow  evening. 

Come  to  me  there  the  day  after  to-morrow  ;  at  any  hour  that  may 
suit  you  t  Adieu." 

Here,  Sir  Philip  Derval  rose,  and  left  the  room.  I  made  no 
effort  to  detain  him.  My  mind  was  too  occupied  in  striving  to 
re  ci  elf,  and  account  tor  the  phenomena  that  had  scared 

it,  and  for  the  st  -  i'  the  impression  it  still  retained. 

I  soiight  to  find  natural  and  accountable  causes  for  effects  so 
abnor    al 

Lord    Bacon   suggests  that  th<  its   with  which  witches 

.  ;s  might  have    had    The   effect   of  stopping  the 
ing  the  brain,  cm!  thus  impressing  the  sic 
..',   [>]     dupes  of  their  own  imagination;  s  so  vivid 

that,  on  waking,  they  were  firmly  convinced  that  they  had  been 
through  the  air  to  the  Sccbbat. 
i  remembered  also  having  istmgui§hed.Frehch  trai 

— whose  veracity  was  unquestionable — say,  that  he  had  witnessed 
extraordinary  effects  produced  on  the  sensorium  by  certain  fumiga- 
tions  used  by  an  African  pretender  to  magic.  A  person,  of  how- 
ever healthy  a  brain,  subjected  to  toe  influence  of  these  fumigations, 
was  induced  to  believe  that  he  saw  the  most  frightful  apparitions. 
However  extraordinary  such  effects,  they  were  not  incredible — 
not  at  variance  with  our  notions  of  the  known  laws  of  nature. 
And  to  the  vapor,  or  the  odors  which  a  powder  applied  to  a  lamp 
had  called  forth,  I  was,  therefore,  prepared  to  ascribe  properties 
similar  to  those  which  Bacon's  conjecture  ascribed  to  the  witches' 
ointment,  and  the  French  traveler  to  the  fumigations  of  the  African 
conjurer. 

.But,  as  I  came  to  that  conclusion,  I  was  seized  with  an  intense 
curiosity  to  examine  for  myself  these  chemical  agencies  with  which 
Sir  Philip  Derval  appeared  so  familiar; — to  test  the  contents  in 
that  mysterious  casket  of   steel.     I    also  felt  a  curiosity  no  less 


A    fcTBANGB   STORY.  129 

eager,  but  more,  in  spite  of  myself,  intermingled  with  fear,  to  learn 
all  that  Sir  Philip  had  to  communicate  of  the  past  history  of  Mar- 
grave. I  could  bul  suppose  that  the  young  man  must  indeed  be  a 
terrible  criminal,  for  a  person  of  years  so  grave,  and  station  so 
high,  to  intimate  accusasibna  so  vaguely  dark,  and  to  use  means  so 
extraordinary  in  order  to  enlist  my  imagination  rather  than  my 
reason  against  a  youth  in  Whom  there  appeared  none  of  the  signs 
which  suspicion  interprets  into  guilt. 

While  thus  musing,  I  lifted  my  eyes  and  saw  Margrave  himself 
there,  at  the  threshold   of  the   hall-room — there,  where   Sir  Philip 

had  first    pointed  him  out  as  the  criminal  he  had  come  to  L to 

seek  and  disarm  ;  and  now,  as  then.  Margrave  was  the  radiant 
centre  of  a  joyous  group;  not  (he  young  hoy-god,  Iacchus,  amidst 
Ids  nymphs  could,  in  Grecian  frieze  or  picture,  have  seemed  more 
the  type  of  the  sportive,  hilarious  vitality  of  sensuous  nature.  He, 
must  have  passed,  unobserved  by  me,  in  my  preoccupation  of 
thought,  from  the  museum  and  across  the  room  in  which  I  sat ;  and 
now  there  was  as  little  trace  in  that  animated  countenance  of  the 
terror  it  had  exhibited  at  Sir  Philip's  approach,  as  of  tii  i  dbai 
had  undergone  in  my  trance  or  my  phantasy. 

But  he  caught  sight  of  me — left  his  young  companions — came 
gaily  to  my  side. 

"  Did  you  not  ask  me  to  go  with  you  into  that  museum  about 
half  an  hour  ago,  or  did  I  dream  that  1  went  with  you?" 

••  Ves;  you  went  with  me  into  that  museum." 

"Then  pray  what  dull  theme  did  you  select,  to  set  me  asleep 
there  I  " 

I  looked  hard  at  him,  and  made  no  reply.  Somewhat  to  my 
relief,  1  now  heard  my  host's  voice: 

"  Why,  1'Ynwick,  what  lias  become  of  Sir  Philip  Penal  ?" 

"He  has  left.  lie  had  business."  And,  as  I  spoke,  again  I 
looked  hard  on  Margrave. 

His  countenance  now  showed  a  charge ;  not  surprise,  not  dis- 
may, bul  rather  a  play  of  the  lip,  a  flash  of  the  eye, thai  indicated 
complacency — even  triumph. 

"So!     Sir  I'hilip  Derval.     He  is  in  L ;    he  has  been  here 

to-night.'     So!   as  I  expected."' 

"  Did  you  expect  it  I  "  said  our  host.  "  No  one  else  did.  Who 
could  have  told  yon  ?  " 

"The  movements  of  men  so  distinguished  need  never  lake  us  by 
surprise.  1  knew  he  was  in  Paris  the  other  day.  Natural  he 
should  conn'  here.     1  was  prepared  for  his  coming." 

Margrave  here  turned  away  towards  the  window,  which  In-  threw 
open  and  looked  out. 

"There  is  a  storm  in  the  air,"  said  he,  as  he  continued  to  gaze 
into  the  night. 

Was  it   possible  that  Margrave   was  so   wholly  unconscious  of 
what  had  passed  in  the  museum,  as  to  include  in  oblivion  even  the 
!) 


130  A    STRANGE    STOR/Y. 

remembrance  of  Sir  Philip  Derval's  presence  before  he  had  been 
rendered  insensible,  or  laid  asleep  ?     Was  it  now  only  for  the  first 

time  that  he   learned  of  Sir    Philip's  arrival  in  L ,  and  visit 

to  that  house?     Was  there  an}'  intimation  of  menace  in  his  words 
and  his  aspect? 

I  felt  that  the  trouble  of  my  heart  communicated  itself  to 
countenance  and  manner;  and  longing  for  solitude  and  fresh  air,  I 
quitted  the  house.  When  I  found  myself  in  the  street,  I  turned 
round  and  saw  Margrave  still  standing  at  the  open  window,  but  he 
did  not  appear  to  notice  me ;  his  eyes  seemed  fixed  abstractedly  on 
space. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

I  walked  on  slowly  and  with  the  downcast  head  of  a  man  ab- 
sorbed in  meditation.  I  had  gained  the  broad  place  in  which  the 
main  streets  of  the  town  converged,  when  I  was  overtaken  by  a, 
violent  storm  of  rain.  I  soughl  shelter  under  the  dark  archway  of 
that  entrance  to  the  district  of  Abbey  Hill  which  -was  still  balled 
Monk-gate.  The  shadow  within  the  arch  was  so  deep  that  I  was 
not  aware  that  I  had  a  companion,  till  T  heard  my  own  name,  close 
at  my  side.  I  recognized  the  voice  before  I  could  distinguish  the 
form  of  Sir  Philip  Derval. 

"  The  storm  will  be  soon  over,"  said  he,  quietly.  "  I  saw  it 
coming  on  in  time.  I  fear  you  neglected  the  first  warning  of  those 
sable  clouds,  and  must  be  already  drenched." 

I  made  no  reply,  but  moved  involuntarily  away  towards  the 
mouth  of  the  arch. 

"  I  see  that  you  cherish  a  grudge  against  me !  "  resumed  Sir 
Philip.     "  Are  you  then,  by  nature,  vindictive  ?  " 

Somewhat  softened  by  the  friendly  tone  of  this  reproach,  I 
answered,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest, 

"You  must  own,  Sir  Philip,  that  I  have  some  little  reason  for 
the  uncharitable  anger  your  question  imputes  to  me.  Put  I  can 
forgive  you  on  one  condition." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  The  possession,  for  half  an  hour,  of  that  mysterious  steel  casket 
which  you  carry  about  with  you,  and  full  permission  to  analyze 
and  test  its  contents." 

"  Your  analysis  of  the  contents,"  returned  Sir  Philip,  dryly, 
"would  leave  you  as  ignorant  as  before,  of  the  uses  to  which  they 
can  be  applied.  But  I  will  own  to  you  frankly,  that  it  is  my  in- 
tention to  select  some  confidant  among  men  of  science,  to  whom  I 
may  safely  communicate  the  wonderful  properties  which  certain 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  131 

essences  in  that  casket  possess.  I  invite  your  acquaintance,  nay, 
your  friendship,  in  the  hope  that  I  may  find  such  a  confidant 
in  you.  But  the  casket  contains  other  combinations,  which,  if 
wasted,  could  not  be  re-supplied  ;  at  least,  by  any  process  which 
the  great  Master  from  whom  I  received  them,  placed  within  reach 
of  my  knowledge.  In  this  they  resemble  the  diamond  ;  when  the 
chemist  has  found  that  the  diamond  affords  no  other  substance  by 
its  combustion  than  pure  carbonic  acid  gas,  and  that  the  only 
chemical  difference  between  the  costliest  diamond,  and  a  lump  of 
pure  charcoal,  is  a  proportion  of  hydrogen,  less  than  one  fifty 
thousandth  pari  of  the  weight  of  the  substance — can  the  chemist 
make  you  a  diamond  l 

"  These,  then,  the  more  potent,  b  it  also  the  more  perilous  of  the 
casket's  contents,  shall  be  explored  by  no  science,  submitted  to  no 
test.  They  are  tliekeysto  masked  doors  in  the  ramparts  of  Nature! 
which  no  mortal  can  pass  through  without  rousing  dread  sentries 
never  seen  upon  this  side  her  wall.  The  powers  they  confer  are 
secrets  locked  in  my  brea$t,  t<>  be  lost  in  my  grave;  a-  th<  ■:  skel 
which  lies  on  my  breast  shall  not  be  transferred  to  the  hands  of 
another,  till  ali  the  resl  of  my  earthlv  possessions  pass  away  with 
my  last  breath  in  life,  and  my  lirst  in  eternity.'' 

"  Sir  Philip  Dertal,"  said  1.  struggling  against  the  appeals  to 

fancy  or  to  awe,  made  in  words  so  strange,  uttered  in  a  tone  of 
earnest  conviction,  and  heard  amidst  the  glare  of  the  lightning,  the 
howl  of  the  winds,  and  the  roll  of  the  thunder — ••  Sir  Philip  Derval, 
you  accost  me  in  language  which,  but  foj-  my  experience  of  the 
powers  at  your  command,  1  should  hear  with  the  contempt  t hat  is 
due  to  the  vaunts  of  a  mountebank,  or  the  pity  we  give  to  the 
morbid  beliefs  of  his  dupe.  As  it  is,  1  decline  the  confidence  with 
which  you  would  favor  me, subject  to  the  conditions  Which  it  seems 
you  would   impose.     My  profession  abandons  to  quacks  all  drugs 

I.  may  not  be  analyzed  ;  al!  secrets  which  may  not  be  fearless- 
ly toM.     I  cauiio!  visit  you  at  Derval  Oourt.      I  cannot  trust  my- 

volunlarily,  again  in  the  power  of  a  man,  who  has  arts  of 
which  1  may  no1  examine  the  nature  by  which  he  can  impose  on 
my  imagination,  and  steal  away  my  reason." 

"Reflect  well,  before  you  so  decide,"  said   Sir  Philip,  with  a 

solemnity  that  was  stern.  "  If  you  refuse  to  be  warned  and  to  be 
armed  by  me,  your  reason  and  your  imagination  will  alike  be  sub- 
jected to  influences  which  I  can  only  explain  by  telling  you  that 
there  is  truth  in  those  immemorial  legends  which  depose  to  the 
existence  of  magic." 

"  Magic  !  " 

'•  There  is  a  magic  of  two  kinds— the  dark  and  evil,  appertain- 
ing to  witohcrafl  or  necromancy ;  the  pure  and  beneficent,  which 
h  but  philosophy,  applied  to  oe*rtain  mysteries  in  Nature  remote 
from  the  beaten  tracks  of  Science,  but,  which  deepened  the  wisdom 


132  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

qf  ancient  sages,  and  can  yet  unriddle  the  myths  of  departed 
races." 

"  Sir  Philip,"  I  said,  with  impatient  and  angry  interruption,  "if 
you  think  that  a  jargon  of  this  kind  be  worthy  a  man  of  your  ac- 
quirements and  station,  it  is  at  least  a  waste  of  time  to  address  it 
to  me.  I  am  led  to  conclude  that  you  desire  to  make  use  of  me  for 
some  purpose  which  I  have  a  right  to  suppose  honest  and  upright, 
because  all  you  know  of  me  is,  that  I  rendered  to  your  relation 
services  which  cannot  lower  my  character  in  your  eyes.  If  your 
object  be,  as  you  have  intimated,  to  aid  you  in  exposing  and  dis- 
abling a  man  whose  antecedents  have  been  those  of  guilt,  and 
who  threatens  with  danger  the  society  which  receives  him,  you 
must  give  me  proofs  that  are  not  reducible  to  magic  ;  and  you 
must  prepossess  me  against  the  person  you  accuse,  not  by  powders 
and  fumes  that  disorder  the  brain,  but  by  substantial  statements, 
such  as  justify  one  man  in  condemning  another.  And,  since  you 
have  thought  it  fit  to  convince  me  that  there  are. chemical  means 
at  your  disposal,  by  which  the  imagination  can  be  so  affected  as  to 
accept,  temporarily,  illusions  for  realities,  so  I  again  demand,  and 
now  still  more  decidedly  than  before,  that  while  you  address  your- 
self to  my  reason,  whether  to  explain  your  object  or  to  vindicate 
your  charges  against  a  man  whom  I  have  admitted  to  my  acquaint- 
ance, you  will  divest  yourself  of  all  means  and  agencies  to  warp 
my  judgment,  so  illicit  and  fraudulent  as  those  which  you  own 
yourself  to  possess.  Let  the  casket,  with  all  its  contents,  be  trans- 
ferred to  my  hands,  and  pledge  me  your  word  that,  in  giving  thai 
casket,  yon  reserve  to  yourself  no  other  means  by  which  chemistry 
can  be  abused  to  those  influences  over  physical  organization,  which 
ignorance  or  imposture  may  ascribe  to — magic." 

'•  I  accept  no  conditions  for  my  confidence,  though  I  think 
better  of  you  for  attempting  to   make  them.     If  I  live,  you  will 
seek  me  yourself  and  implore  my  aid.     Meanwhile,  listen  to  me, 
and — " 

"No  ;  I  prefer  the  rain  and  the  thunder  to  the  whispers  that 
steal  to  my  ear  in  the  dark  from  one  of  whom  I  have  reason  to 
beware  " 

So  saying,  I  stepped  forth,  and  at  that  moment  the  lightning 
flashed  through  the  arch,  and  brought  into  full  view  the  face  of  the 
man  beside  me.  Seen  by  that  glare,  it  was  pale  as  the  face  of 
a  corpse,  but  its  expression  was  compassionate  and  serene. 

I  hesitated,  for  the  expression  of  that  hueless  countenance 
touched  me  ;  it  was  not  the  face  which  inspires  distrust  or  fear. 

"  Come."  said  I,  gently  ,  "grant  my  demand.     The  casket — " 

"  It  is  no  scruple  of  distrust  that  now  makes  that,  demand  ;  it  is 
a  curiosity,  which  in  itself  is  a  fearful  tempter.  Did  you  now 
possess  what  at  this  moment  you  desire,  how  bitterly  you  would 
repent." 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  my  demand  1 " 


A   STRANGE    STORY.  133 

"  I  refuse." 

"  If  then  you  really  need  me,  it  is  you  who  will  repent." 
I  passed  from  the  arch  into  the  open  space.  The  rain  had 
paused,  the  thunder  was  more  distant.  I  looked  back  when  I  had 
gained  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  at  the  angle  of  a  street  which 
led  to  my  own  house.  As  I  did  so,  again  the  skies  lightened,  hut 
the  flash  was  comparatively  slight  and  evanescent;  it  did  nor  pene- 
trate the  gloom  of  the  arch;  it.  did  not  bring  the  form  of  §ir 
Philip  into  view;  but,  just  under  the  base  of  the  outer  buttress  to 
the  gateway,  I  descried  the  outline  of  a  dark  figure,  cowering  down, 
huddled  up  for  shelter,  the  outline  so  indistinct  and  so  soon  lost  to 
sight,  as  the  tlash  faded,  that  I  could  not  distinguish  if  it,  were 
man  or  brute.  If  it  were  some  chance  passer-by,  who  had  sought 
refuge  from  the  rain,  and  overheard  any  part,  of  our  strange  talk, 
•■  the  listener,"  thought  I,  with  half  a  smihj,  "  must  have  been 
mighlly  perplexed." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

On  reaching  my  own  home,  I  found  my  servant,  sitting  up  for 
me.  with  the  information  that  my  attendance  was  immediately  re- 
quired. The  little  hoy  whom  Margrave's  carelessness  had  so 
injured,  and  for  whose  injury  he  had  shown  so  little  feeling,  had 
been  weakened  by  the  confinement  which  the  nature  of  the  injury 
required,  and  for  the  last,  few  days  had  been  generally  ailing. — 
The  father  had  come  to  my  house  a  few  minutes  before  I  reached 
it,  in  ureal  distress  of  mind,  saying  that  his  child  had  been  seized 
with  lever;  and  had  become  delirious.  Hearing  that  I  was  at 
the  mayor's  house,  he  had  hurried  thither  in  search  of  me. 

I  felt  as  if  it  were  almost  a  relief  to  the  troubled  and  haunting 
thoughts  which  tormented  me,  to  be  summoned  to  the  exercise  of 
a  familiar  knowledge.  I  hastened  to  the  bedside  of  the  little  suf- 
ferer,  and  soon  forgot  all  else  in  the  anxious  struggle  for  a  human 
life.  The  struggle  promised  to  be  successful ;  the  worst  symp- 
toms began  to  yield  to  remedies  prompt,  and  energetic,  if  simple. 
I  remained  at  the  house,  rather  to  comfort  and  support  the  pa- 
rents, than  because  my  continued  attendance  was  absolu'ely 
needed,  till  the  night  was  well  nigh  gone,  and,  all  cause  of  imme- 
diate danger  having  subsided,  I  then  found  myself  once  more  in 
the  streets.  An  atmosphere  palely  clear  in  the  gray  of  dawn  had 
succeeded  to  the  thunder-clouds  of  the  stormy  night;  the  street 
lamps,  here  and  there,  burned  wan  and  still.  I  was  walking 
slowly  and  wearily,  so  tired  out  that  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
my  own  thoughts,  when,  in  a  narrow  lane,  my  feet  stopped  almost 


134  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

mechanically  before  a  human  form  stretched  at  full  length  in  the 
centre  of  the  road,  right  in  my  path.  The  form  was  dark"  in  the 
shadow  thrown  from  the  neighboring  houses.  "  Some  poor  drunk- 
ard," thought  I,  and  the  humanity  inseparable  from  my  calling, 
not  allowing  me  to  leave  a  fellow-crearure  thus  exposed  to  the  risk 
of  being  run  over  by  the  first  drowsy  wagoner  who  might  pass 
along  the  thoroughfare,  I  stooped  to  rouse  and  to  lift  the  form. 
WJnit  was  my  horror  when  my  eyes  met  the  rigid  si  arc  of  a  dead 
man's.  I  started,  looked  again  ;  it  was  the  face  of  Sir  Philip  Der- 
val !  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  the  countenance  upturned,  a  dark 
stream  oozing  from  the  breast — murdered  by  two  ghastly  wounds — 
murdered  not  long  .since  ;  the  blood  was  still  warm.  Stunned  and 
terror-stricken,  1  stood  bending  over  the  body.  Suddenly  i  was 
touched  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Hillo  !   what  is  this  ?"  said  a  gruff  voice. 

"Murder!"  1  answered,  in  hollow  accents,  which  sounded 
strangely  to  my  own  ear. 

"Murder!  so  it  seems."  And  the  policeman  who  had  thus  ac- 
costed me  lifted  the  body. 

"  A  gentleman,  by  his  dress.  (low  did  this  happen?  How 
did  you  come  here?"  and  the  policeman  g!an<  eiously  at 

me. 

At  this  moment,  however,  there  came  up  another  policeman,  in 
whom  1  recognized  the  young  man  whose  sister  1  had  attended  and 
cured. 

"  Dr.  Fenwick,"  said  the  last,  lifting  his  ha:  fully,  and 

at  the  sound  of  my  name,  his  fellow-policeman  changed  his  man- 
ner, and  muttered  an  apology. 

I  how  collected  myself  sufficiently  to  state  the  name  and  rank 
of  the  murdered  man.  The  policemen  bore  the  body  to  their 
station,  to  which  I  accompanied  them.  1  then  returned  tomyown 
house,  and  had  scarcely  sunk  on  my  bed  when  sleep' came  over  me. 
But  what  a  sleep  !  Never  till  then  had  I  known  how  awfully  dis- 
tinct dreams  can  be.  The  phantasmagoria  of  the  naturalist's  col- 
lection revived.  Life  again  awoke  in  the  serpent  and  the  tiger,  the 
scorpion  moved,  and  the  vulture  flapped  its  wings.  And  there 
was  Margrave,  and  there  Sir  Philip;  but  their  position  of  power 
was  reversed.  And  Margrave's  foot  was  on  the  breast  of  the  dead 
man.  Still  I  slept  on  till  I  was  roused  by  the  summons  to  attend 
on  Mr.  Vigors,  the  magistrate,  to  whom  the  police  had  reportei 
murder. 

I  dressed  hastily,  and  went  forth.  As  I  passed  through  the 
street.  I  found  that  the  dismal  news  had  already  spread.  I  was 
accosted  on  my  way  to  the  magistrate  by  a  hundred  eager  tremu- 
lous, inquiring  tongues. 

The  scanty  evidence  I  could  impart  was  soon  given.  My  intro- 
duction to  Sir  Philip  at  the  mayor's  house,  our  accidental  meeting 
under  the  arch,  my  discovery  of  the  corpse  some  hours  afterwards 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  135 

on  my  return  from  my  patient,  -my  professional  belief  that  the  deed 
must  have  been  dune  a  very  short  time,  perhaps  but  a  few  m-in 
utes,  before  I  had  chanced  upon  its  victim.  But,  in  that  case,  how 
account  for  the  long  interval  that  had  elapsed  between  the  time 
in  which  I  had  left  .Sir  Philip  under  the  arch,  and  the  time  in  which 
the  murder  must  have  been  committed]  Sir  Philip  could  not 
have  been  wandering  through  the  streets  all  those  hours.  This 
doubt,  however,  was  easily  and  speedily  cleared  up.  A  M 
who  was  one  of  the  principal  solicitors  in  the  town,  stated  that;  lie 
had  acted  as  Sir  Philip's  legal  agent  and  adviser  ever  since  Sir 
Philip  came  of  aire,  and  was  With  the  exclusive  manage- 
ment of  Some  valuable  house  property  which  the  deceased  had  pos- 
sessed in  L ;  that  when  Sir  Philip  had  arrived  in  the  town, 

late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  previous  day,  he  had  sent  for  Mr.  Je. 
informed  him  that  he.  Sir  Philip,  was  engaged  to  be  married  ;  that 
lie  desired  to  have  full  and  minute  information  as  to  the  details  of 
his  house  property  (which  had  greatly  increased  in  value  since  his 
absence  from  Knglaud),  in  connection  with  the  settlements  his 
marriage  would  render  necessary  :  and  that  this  information  was 
also  required  by  him  in  respect  to  a  codicil  he  desired  to  add  to 
his  will. 

lie  had,  accordingly,  requested  Mr.  Jeeves  to  have  all  the 
books  and  statements  Concerning  the  property  ready  for  his  in- 
spection that  night,  when  lie  would  call,  after  leaving  the  ball, 
which  he  bad  promised  the  mayor,  whom  he  had  accidentally  met 
on  entering  the  town,  to  attend.  Sir  Philip  had  also  asked  Mr. 
.Jeeves  to  detain  one  of  his  clerks  in  his  office,  in  order  to  serve 
conjointly  with  Mr. . Jeeves  as  a  witness  to  the  codicil  he  desired  to 
add-to  his  will.  Sir  Philip  had  accordingly  come  to  Mr.  Jeeves' 
house  a  little  before  midnight;  had  gone  carefully  through  al. 
statements  prepared  for  him,  and  had  executed  the  fresh  codicil  to 
his  testament,  winch  testament  he  had.  in  their  previous  interview, 
given  to  .Mr.  Jeeves'  care*  sealed  up.  Mr.  Jeeves  stated  that  Sir 
Philip,  though  a  man  of  remarkable  talents  and  great  acquirements, 
was  extremely  eccentric,  and  of  a  very  peremptory  temper,  and 
that  the  importance  attached  to  a  promptitude  for  which  there 
seemed  no  pressing  occasion,  did  not  surprise  him  in  Sir  Philip  as 
'  :!r,  have  done  in  an  ordinary  client.  Sir  Philip  said,  indeed, 
that:  he  should  devote  the  next  morning'  to  the  draft  for  his  wed- 
ding settlements,  according  to  the  information  of  his  property 
which  he  had  acquired  ;  and  after  a  visit  of  very  brief  duration 
to  Derval  Court,  should  quit  the  neighborhood  and  return  to 
Paris,  where  his  intended  bride  then  was,  and  in  which  city  it  had 
been  settled  that  the  marriage  ceremony  should  take- place. 

Mr.  Jeeves  had,  however,  observed  to  him,  that  if  he  were  so 
soon  to  be  married  it  was  better  to  postpone  any  revision  of  testa- 
mentary bequests,  since  after  marriage  he  would  have  to  make  a 
new  will  altogether. 


136  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

And  Sir  Philip  had  simply  answered. 

"  Life  is  uncertain ;  who  can  be  sure  of  the  morrow  V 

Sir  Philip's  visit  to  Mr.  Jeeves'  house  had  lasted  some  hours, 
for  the  conversation  between  them  had  branched  off  from  actual 
business  to  various  topics.  Mr.  Jeeves  had  not  noticed  the  hour 
when  Sir  Philip  went;  he  could  only  say  that  as  he  attended  him 
to  the  street  door,  he  observed,  rather  to  his  own  surprise,  that  it 
was  close  upon  daybreak. 

Sir  Philip's  body  had  been  found  not  many  yards  distant  from 
the  hotel  at  which  he  had  put  up,  and  to  which,  therefore,  he  was 
evidently  returning,  when  he  left  Mr.  Jeeves.     An  old-fashioned 

hotel,  which  had  been  the  principal  one  at  L when  Sir  Philip 

left  England,  though  now  outrivaled  by  the  new  and  more  central 
establishment,  in  which  Margrave  was  domiciled. 

The  primary  and  natural  supposition  was  that  Sir  Philip  had 
been  murdered  for  the  sake  of  plunder ;  and  this  supposition  was 
borne  out  by  the  fact  to  which  his  valet  deposed,  namely  : 

That  Sir  Philip  had  about  his  person,  on  going  to  the  mayor's 
house,  a  purse  containing  notes  and  sovereigns;  and  Ibis  purse 
was  now  missing. 

The  valet,  who,  though  an  Albanian,  spoke  English  fluently, 
said  that  the  purse  had  a  gold  clasp,  on  which  Sir  Philip's  crest 
and  initials  were  engraved.  Sir  Philip's  watch  was,  however,  un- 
taken. 

And,  now,  it  was  not  without  a  quick  beat  of  the  heart,  that  1 
heard  the  valet  declare  that  a  steel  casket,  to  which  Sir  Philip 
attached  extraordinary  value,  and  always  carried  about  with  him, 

was  also  missing. 

The  Albanian  described  this  casket  as  of  ancient  Byzantian 
workmanship,  opening  with  a  peculiar  spring,  only  known  to  Sir 
Philip,  in  whose  possession  it  had  been,  so  far  as  the  servant 
knew,  about  three  years  j  when,  after  a  visit  to  Aleppo,  in  which 
the  servant  had  not  accompanied  him,  he  had  first  observed  it  in 
his  master's  hands.  He  was  asked  if  this  casket  contained  arti- 
cles to  account  for  the  value  Sir  Philip  set  on  it — such  as  jewels, 
bank  notes,  letters  of  credit,  etc.  The  man  replied  that  it  might 
possibly  do  so ;  he  had  never  been  allowed  the  opportunity  of 
examining  its  contents ;  but  that  he  was  certain  the  casket  held 
medicines,  for  he  had  seen  Sir  Philip  take  from  it  some  small 
phials,  by  which  he  had  performed  great  cures  in  the  East,  and 
especially  during  a  pestilence  which  had  visited  Eamascus,  just 
after  Sir  Philip  had  arrived  at  that  city  on  quitting  Aleppo. 
Almost  every  European  traveler  is  supposed  to  be  a  physician ; 
and  Sir  Philip  was  a  man  of  great  benevolence,  and  the  servant 
firmly  believed  him  also  to  be  of  great  medical  skill.  After  this 
statement,  it  was  very  naturally  and  generally  conjectured  that 
Sir  Philip  was  an   amateur  disciple  of  homoepathy,  and  that  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  137 

casket  contained  the  phials  or  globules  in  use  among  aomcepa- 
tbists. 

Whether  or  not  Mr.  Vigors  enjoyed  a  vindictive  triumph  in 
making  me  feel  the  weight  of  bis  authority,  or  whether  liis  temper 
was  milled  in  the  excitement  of  so  grave  a  case,  I  cannol  say, 
but  Ins  manner  was  stem  and  his  tone  discourteous  in  the  i 
tions  which  he  addressed  to  me.  Nor  did  the  questions  them- 
selves seem  very  pertinent  to  the  object  of  investigation. 

"Tray,  Dr.  Fenwick,"   said  he,   knitting  Ids  brows,   mid  fixing 
his  eyes  on  me  rudely,  "did  Sir  Philip  Dcrval,  in  his  oonvers; 
with  you,  mention  the  steel  casket  winch  it  seems  he  carried  about 
with  him  - 

1  felt  my  countenance  change  slightly,  as  I  answered,  "Yes." 

"  Did  be  tell  you  what  it  contained  1  "' 

"He  said  it  contained  secrets." 

"  Secrets  of  what  nature,  medicinal  or  chemical  !  Secrets 
which  a  physician  might  be  curious  to  learn  and  covetous  to 
possess  [  " 

This  question  seemed  to  me  so  offensively  significant  that  it 
roused  my  indignation,  and  1  answered  haughtily,  that  "  a  physi- 
cian of  any  degree  of  merited  reputation  did  not  much  believe  in, 
and  still  less  covet,  those  secrets  in  his  art,  which  were  the  boast 
of  quacks  and  pretenders." 

"My  question  need  not  offend  you.  Dr.  Fenwick.  I  put  it  in 
another  shape.  Did  Sir  Philip  Derval  so  boast  of  the  secrets  con- 
tained in  his  casket,  that  a  quack  or  pretender  might  deem  such 
secrets  of  use  to  him  1  '" 

"Possibly  he  might,  if  he  believed  in  such  a  boast," 

"  Humph — he  might  if  he  so  believed.  I  have  no  more  ques- 
tions to  put  to  you  at  present.  Dr.  Fenwick." 

Little  of  any  importance  in  connection  with  the  deceased,  or  his 
murder,  transpired  in  the  course  of  that  day's  examination  and 
inquiries.  ■ 

The  next  day,  a  gentleman,  distantly  related  to  the  young  lady 
to  whom  Sir  Philip  was  engaged,  and  who  had  been  for  some  time 

in  correspondence  with  the  deceased,  arrived   at   L .     lie  had 

been  sent  for  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Albanian  servant,  who  said 
that-  Sir  Philip  had  stayed  a  day  at  this  gentleman's  house  in  Lon- 
don, on  his  way  to  L ,  from  Dover. 

The  new  comer,  whose  name  was  Danvers.  gave  ;i  more  touch- 
ing pathos  to  the  horror  which  the  murder  had  excited.  It  seemed 
that  the  motives  which  had  swayed  Sir  Philip  in  the  choice  of  Ids 
betrothed,  were  singularly  pure  and  noble.  The  young  lady's 
father — an  intimate  college  friend — had  been  visited  by  a  sudden 
reverse  of  fortune,  which  had  brought  on  a  fever  that  proved 
mortal.  He  had  died  some  years  ago,  leaving  bus  only  child  pen- 
niless, and  had  bequeathed  her  to  the  care  and  guardianship  of 
Sir  Philip. 


138  A   STRANGE   STORY. 

The  orphan  received  her  education  at  a  convent  near  Paris ; 
and  when  tSir  Philip,  a  few  weeks  since,  arrived  in  that  city  from 
the  East,  he  offered  her  his  hand  and  fortune.  "  I  know,"  said 
Mr.  Danvers,  "  from  the  conversation  I  held  with  him  when  lie 
came  to  me  in  London,  that  he  was  induced  to  this  offer  by  the 
conscientious  desire  to  discharge  the  trust  consigned  to  him  by 
his  old  friend.  Sir  Philip  was  still  too  young  to  take  under  his 
own  roof  a  female  ward  of  eighteen,  without  injury  to  her  good 
name.  He  could  only  get  over  that  difficulty  by  making  the  ward 
his  wife.  'She  will  be  safer  and  happier  with  the  man  she  will 
love  and  honor  for  her  father's  sake,'  said  the.  chivalrous  gentle- 
man, '  than  she  will  be  under  any  other  roof  I  could  find  for  her.'  " 

And  now  there  arrived  another  stranger  to  L ,  sent  for  by 

Mr.  Jeeves,  the  lawyer ;  a  stranger  to  L ,  but  not  to  me  ;  my 

,old  Edinburgh  acquaintance,  Richard  Strahan. 

The  will  in  Mr.  Jeeves'  keeping,  with  its  recent  codicil,  was 
opened  and  read.  The  will  itself  bore  date  about  six  years  ante- 
rior to  the  testator's  tragic  death  ;  it  was  very  short,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  legacies,  of  which  the  most  important  was  ten 
thousand  pounds  to  his  ward,  the  whole  of  his  property  was  left 
to  Richard  Strahan,  on  the  condition  that  he  took  the  name  and 
arms  of  Derval  within  a  year  from)  the  date  of  Sir  Philip's  de- 
cease. The  codicil,  added  to  the  will  the  night  before  his  death, 
increased  the  legacy  to  the  young  lady  from  ten  to  thirty  thousand 
pounds,  ami  bequeathed  an  annuity  of  one  hundred  pounds  a  year 
to  his  Albanian  servant.  Accompanying  the  will,  and  within  the 
same  envelope,  was  a  sealed  letter,  addressed  to  Richard  Strahan, 
and  dated  at  Paris  two  weeks  before  Sir  Philip's  decease.  Strahan 
brought  that  letter  to  me.  It  ran  thus:  "Richard  Strahan,  1 
advise  you  to  pull  down  the  house  called  Derval  Court,  and  to 
buiM  another  on  a  better  site,  the  plans  of  which,  to  be  modified 
according  to  your  own  taste  and  requirements*  will  be  found  among 
my  papers.  This  is  a  recommendation,  not  a  command.  But  1 
strictly  enjoin  you  entirely  to  demolish  the  more  ancient  part, 
which   wa  ipied  by   myself,   and    to  destroy  by  fire, 

without  perusal,  all  the  books  and  manuscripts  found  in  the  safes 
in  my  study.  I  have  appointed  you  my  sole  executor,  as  we'd  as 
my  heir,  because  I  have  no  personal  friends  in  whom  I  can  con- 
fide as  I  trust  I  may  do  in  the  man  I  have  never  seen,  simply 
because  he  will  bear  my  name  and  represent  my  lineage.  There  will 
be  found  in  my  writing  desk,  which  always  accompanies  me  in  my 
travels,  an  autobiographical  work,  a  record  of  my  own  life,  com- 
prising discoveries,  or  hints  at  discovery,  in  science,  through  means 
little  cultivated  in  our  age.  You  will  not  be  surprised  that  before 
selecting  you  as  my  heir  and  executor,  from  a  crowd  of  relations 
not  more  distant,  I  should  have  made  inquiries  in  order  to  justify 
my  selection.  The  result  of  those  inquiries  informs  me  that  you 
have  not  yourself  the  peculiar  knowledge  nor  the  habits  of  mind 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  139 

that  cmild  enable  you  to  judge'  of  matters  'Which  demand  the  attain- 
ments and  the  practice  of  science  ;    bu1  thai   you  are  bf  an  honest, 

innate  nature,  and  will  regard  as  sacred  the  last  injunctioi 
a  benefactor.     I  enjoin  yen,  then,  to  submit  the  aforesaid  manu- 
script memoir  to  some  man  on  whose  character  for  humanity  and 
honor  you  call  place  confidential  reliance,  and  who  is  ac< 
to  the  study  of  the  positive  sciences,  more  especially  chemistry,  in 
connection  with  electricity  and  magnetism.     My  desire  is^th 
shall  edit  and  arrange  this    memoir    for    publication;    and  thai, 
wherever  ho  feels  a  c<  nsbientious  doubt  whether  any  discovery,  or 
hint  of  discovery,  therein  contained,  would  not  prove  more  danger- 
ous than  useful  to  mankind,  he  shall  consult  with  any  other  three 
men  of  science  whose  names  are  a  guarantee  for  probity  and  know- 
ledge, and  according  to  the  best  of  his  judgment,  after  such  con- 
sultation, suppress  or  publish  the  passage  of  which  he  has  so  doubted. 
I  own  the  ambition  Which  first  directed  me  towards  studies  of  a 
very  unusual  charai  which  has  encouraged  me  in  their  pur- 

suit  through  many  years  of  voluntary  exile,  in  lands  where 

I  be  best  facilitated  or  aided — the  ami  leaving  behind 

me  the  renown  of  a  bold  discoverer  in  those  recesses  of  na 
<which  philosophy  has  hitherto  abandoned  to  Buperstil  Bui   L 

feel,  at  the  moment  in  which  I  trace  these  lines,  a   fear  lest,  in  the 
bing  interest  of  researches  which  tend  to  increase  to  a  marvel- 
ous degree  the  power  of  man  over  all  matter,  animate  or  inani 
I  may  have  blunted  my  own  moi  and  that   there 

111:1;  be  much  in  (lie  knowledge  which   1  sought  and  acquired  from 
ore  desire  of  investigating  hidden  truths,  that  could  be  more 
abused  to  purposes  of  tremendous  evil  than  be  likely  to  condu 
benignant  good.     And  of  this  a  mind  disciplined  to  severe  reason- 
ing, and  uninfluenced  by  the  enthusiasm  which   has  probably  ob- 
scured my  own  judgment,  should  be  the  unprejudiced  arbiter.    .Much 
as  1   have  coveted  and  still  do  covet  (hat  fame  which  make: 
memory  of  one  man  the  common   inheritance  of  all.  I  would  in- 
ly rataei   that  my  name  should  pass  away  wish  my  breath, 
thai   Ishould  transmit   to  my  fellow,  men  any  portion 
knowledge  which  the  good  mighl  e  and  the 

it  unscrupulously  pervert.    1  bear  about  with  me,  wherever  I 
wander,  a  certi  tfasket.     I  received  this  casket  with  its  con- 

tents from  a  man  whose  memory  1  hold  in  profound  veneration. 
Should  1  live  to  find  a  person  whom,  after  minute  and  intimate 
trial  of  his  character,  J  should  deem  worthy  of  such  confidence,  if 
is  my  intentipn  to  communicate  to  hiu  ret  how  to  prepare 

and  now  to  u.  "  the  powders  and,  essences  stored  within 

that  casket  as  I  myself  have  Oy.     Others    !    have 

never  tested,,  nor  do  1  know  how  they  could  be  re-supplied  if  lost 
i  r  wasted.      Hut  as  the  contents  in  the  hands  Of  any 

one  not  duly  instructed  as  of  applying  them,  would 

either  he  useless,   or  conduce,   through  inadvertent  ami  ignorant 


140  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

misapplication,  to  the  most  dangerous  consequences ;  so,  if  I  die 
without  having  found,  and  in  writing  named,  such  a  confidant  as  I 
have  described  above,  I  command  you  immediately  to  empty  all  the 
powders  and  essences  found  therein  into  any  running  stream  of 
water,  which  will  at  once  harmlessly  dissolve  them.  On  no  account 
must  they  be  cast  into  nre ! 

"  This'  letter,  Richard  Strahan,  will  only  come  under  your  eyes 
in  case  the  plans  and  the  hopes  which  I  have  formed  for  my  earthly 
future  snould  be  frustrated  by  the  death  on  which  I  do  not  calcu- 
late, but  against  the  chances  of  which  this  will  and  this  letter  pro- 
vide. I  am  about  to  re-visit  England,  in  defiance  of  a  warning 
that  I  shall  be  there  subjected  to  some  peril  which  1  refuse  to  have 
defined,  because  I  am  unwilling  that  any  mean  apprehension  of 
personal  danger  should  enfeeble  my  nerves  in  the  discharge  of  a 
stern  and  solemn  duty.  If  I  overcome  that  peril,  you  will  not  be 
my  heir ;  my  testament  will  be  remodeled  ;  this  tetter  will  be  re- 
called and  destroyed.  T  shall  form  ties  which  promise  me  the  hap- 
piness I  have  never  hitherto  found,  though  it  is  common  to  all 
meB — the  affections  of  home,  the  caresses  of  children,  among  whom 
I  may  find  one  to  whom  hereafter  I  may  bequeath,  in  my  knowl- 
edge, a  far  nobler  heritage  than  my  lands.  In  that  case,  however,, 
my  first  care  would  be  to  assure  your  own  fortune.  And  the  sum 
which  this  codicil  assures  to  my  betrothed,  would  be  transferred  to 
yourself  on  my  wedding  day.  Do  you  know  why,  never  having 
seen  you,  I  thus  select  you  for  preference  to  all  my  other  kindred  ? 
Why  my  heart,  in  writing  thus,  warms  to  your  image?  Richard 
Strahan,  your  only  sister,  many  years  older  than  yourself — you 
were  then  a  child — was  the  object  of  my  first  love.  We  were  to 
have  been  wedded,  for  her  parents  deceived  me  into  the  belief  1hat 
she  returned  my  atfection.  With  a  rare  and  noble  candor,  she  her- 
self informed  me  that  her  heart  was  given  to  another,  who  pos- 
sessed not  my  worldly  gifts  of  wealth  and  station.  In  resigning 
my  claims  to  her  hand,  I  succeeded  in  propitiating  her  parents  to 
her  own  choice.  I  obtained  for  her  husband  the  living  which  he 
held,  and  I  settled  on  your  sister  the  dower  which,  at  her  death, 
passed  to  you  as  the  brother  to  whom  she  had  shown  a  mother's 
love,  and  the  interest  of  which  has  secured  to  you  a  modest  inde- 
pendence. 

"  If  these  lines  ever  reach  you,  recognize  my  title  to  reverential 
obedience  to  commands  which  may  seem  to  you  wild,  perhaps  irra- 
tional ;  and  repay,  as  if  a  debt  due  from  your  own  lost  sister,  the 
affection  I  have  borne  to  you  for  her  sake." 

While  I  read  this  long  and  strange  letter,  Strahan  sat  by  my 
side,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  and  weeping  with  honest 
tears  for  the  man  whose  death  had  made  him  powerful  and  rich. 

"  You  will  undertake  the  trust  ordained  to  me  in  this  letter," 
said  he,  struggling  to  compose  himself.  "  You  will  read  and  edit 
this  memoir  ;  you  are  the  very  man  he  himself  would  have  selected. 


A    STRANGE   BTORY.  1-t  ! 

Of  your  honor  and  humanity  1horo  can  be  no  doubt,  and  yon  have 
studied  with  success  the  sciences  which  he  specifics  as  requisite  for 
the  discharge  of  the  task-  he  commands." 

At  this  request,  though  T  could  not  be  wholly  unprepared  for  it, 
thy  first  impulse  was  that  o(  a  Vague  terror.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  I  were  becoming  more  and  more  entangled  in  a  mysterious  and 
fatal  web.  But  this  impulse  soon  faded  in  the  eager  yearnings  of 
an  ardent  and  irresistible  curiosity. 

T  premised  to  read  the  manuscript,  and  in  order  that  I  might 
fully  imbue  my  mind  with  the  object  and  wish  of  the  deceased,  1 
asked  leave  to  make  a  copy  oftheletter  I  had  just  read.  To  this 
Strahan  readily  assented,  and  that  copy  I  have  transcribed  in  the 
preceding  pages. 

1  asked  Strahan  if  he  had  ye!  found  the  manuscript;  he  said, 
"No,  he  had  not  yet  had  the  heart  to  inspect  the  papers  left  by  the 
deceased.  He  would  now  do  so.  lie  should  go  in  a  day  or  two 
to  l>erval  Court,  and  reside  there  till  the  murderer  was  discovered, 
as  doubtless  he  soon  must  be  through  the  vigilance  of  the  police. 
Not  till  that  discovery  was  made  should  Sir  Philip's  remains, 
though  already  placed  in  their  coffin,  he  Consigned  to  the  family 
vault." 

Strahan  seemed  to  have  some  superstitious  notion  that  the  mur- 
derer might-  be  more  secure  from  justice  if  ids  victim  were  thrust, 
unavenged,  into  the  tomb. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  belief  prevalent  in  the  town  ascribed  the  murder  of  Sir 
Philip  to  the  violence  of  some  vulgar  robber,  probably  not  an  in- 
habitant of  L .  Mr.  Vigors  did  not  favor  that  belief,  lie  in- 
timated an  opinion,  which  seemed  extravagant  and  groundless, 
that  Sir  Philip  had  been  murdered,  for  the  sake  not  of  the  missing 
purse,  but  of  the  missing  casket.  II  was  currently  believed  that 
the  solemn  magistrate  had  consulted  one  of  his  pretended  vlairvo;/- 
ants,  and  that  this  impostor  had  gulled  him  with  assurances,  to 
which  he  attached  a  credit  that  perverted  into  egregiously  absurd 
directions  his  characteristic  activity  and  zeal. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  coroners  inquest  closed  without  casting 
any  light-  on  so  mysterious  a  tragedy. 

What  were  my  own  conjectures  1  scarcely  dared  to  admit — I 
certainly  could  not  venture  to  utter  them.  But  my  suspicions  cen- 
tred upon  Margrave.     That  for  some  reason  or  other  he  had  cause 

to,  dread  Sir  Philip's   presence   in    L was   clear,  even  to  my 

reason.  And  how  could  my  reason  reject  all  the  influences  which 
had  been  brought  to  bear  on  my  imagination,  whether  by  the  scene 


142  A    STRAJXGE    STORY. 

in  the  museum  or  my  conversation  with  the  deceased  ?     But  it  was 
impossible  to  act  on  such  -suspicions — impossible  even  to  confide 
them.     Could  I  have  told  to  any  man  the  effect  produced  on  me 
■  museum,  he  would  have  considered  me  a  liar  or  a  madman. 
in  Sir  Philip's  accusations  against  Margrave  there  was  nothing 
tangible — nothing  that  could  bear*  repetition.     Those  accusations, 
if  analyzed,  vanished  into  air.     What  did  they  imply  1 — that  Mar- 
grave was  a  magician,  a  monstrous  prodigy,  a  creature  exceptional 
to  the  ordinary  conditions  of  humanity.     Would  the  most  reckless 
lortals  have  ventured  to  bring  against  the  worst  of  characters 
such  a  charge,  on  the  authority  of  a  deceased  witness,  and  to  found 
,  idence  so  fantastic  the  awful  accusation  of  murder  1     But  of 
all  men,  certainly  I — a  sober,  practical  physician — was  the  last 
whom  the  public  could  excuse   for  such  incredible  implications — 
and  certainly,  of  all  men,  the  last  against  whom  any  suspicion  of 
heinous  crime  would  be  readily  entertained  was  that  joyous  youth 
in  whose  sunny  aspect  life  ami  conscience  alii  I  to  keep 

careless  holiday.     But  1  could  not  overcome,  nor  did  1  attempt  to 
reason  against,  the  horror  akin  to  detestation  that  had  succeeded 
ing  attraction  by  which  Margrave  had  before  con- 
ciliated a  liking  founded  rather  on  admiration  than  esteem. 

In  order  to  avoid  his  visits,  1  kepi,  away  from  the  study  in  v. ' 
I  had  habitually  spent  my  mornings,  and  to  which   lie   had  been 
accustomed  to  an  access.      And  if  he  called'at  the  front 

door,  1  directed  my  servant  to  tell  him  that  I  was  either  from  home 
or  engaged.     He  did  attempt  for  the   first  few  days  to  visit  me  as 
before,  but  when  my  intention  to  shun    him  became  thus  manil 
desisted. ;  naturally  enough,  as  any  other  man  so  pointedly  repelled 
Id  have  done, 
iisiained  from  all  those  houses  in  which  1  was  likely  to  n 
him  ;  and  went  my  professional  round  of  visits  in  a  close  carriage  ; 
so  that  I  might  nol  be  accosted  by  him  in  his  walks. 

One  morning,  a  very  tew  days  after  Straban  had  shown  mi 
Philip  Derval's  letter,  I  received  a  note  from   my  old  colleg 
quaint  auce,  stating  that  he  was  going  to  Derval  Court  that  after- 
noon ;  that  he  should  take  with  him  the  memoir  which  he  had  found  ; 
and  begging  me  to  visit  him  at  his  new  home  the  next  day,  and  com- 
mence my  inspection  of  the  manuscript.     I  consented  eagerly. 

That  morning,  on  going  my  round,  my  carriage  passed  by  another 
drawn  up  to  the  pavement*  and  I  recognized  the  figure  of  Margrave 
ling  beside  the  vehicle,  and  talking  to  some  one  seated  within  it. 
I  looked  back,  as  my  own  carriage  whirled  rapidly  by,  and  saw  with 
uneasiness  and  alarm  that  it  was  Richard  btrahan  to  whom  Mar- 
grave was  thus  familiarly  addressing  himself.  How  had  the  two 
acquaintance  ?  Was  it  not  an  outrage  on  Sir  Philip  Derval's 
memory,  that  the  heh- he  had  selected  should  he  thus  apparently 
intimate  with  the  mlm  whom  he  had  so  sternly  denounced  .'  I 
hecame  still  more  impatient  to  read  the  memoir — in  all  probability 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  143 

it  would  give  such  explanations  with  respect  to  Margrave's  ante- 
cedents, as,  if  not  sufficing  to  criminate  him  (if  legal  offences, 
wou  d  at  least  effectually  terminate  any  acquaintance  between  Sir 

Philip's  successor  and  him  elf. 

All  my  thoughts  were,  however,  diverted  to  channels  of  far 
deeper  interest  even  than  those  in  which  my  mind  had  of  late 
been  so  tuniultuously  whirled  along;  when,  on  returning  home,  I 
found  a  note  from  Mrs. -Ashleigh.     She  and  Lilian  had  just  come 

back  to  L ,  sooner  than  she  had  led  me  to  anticipate.     Lilian 

had  not  seemed  quite  well  the  past  day  or  two,  and  had  been  anx- 
ious to  return. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

Let  me  recall  it — softly — softly!  Let  me  recall  that  evening 
spent  with  her! — that  evening,  the  last  before'  darkness  rose  be- 
tween us  like  a  solid  wall. 

It  was  an  evening,  at  the  close  of  summer.  The  snn  had  set, 
the  twilight  was  lingering  si  ill.  We  were  in  the  old  monastic  par- 
den — garden  so  quiet,  so  cool,  so  fragrant.  She  was  seated  on  a 
bench  under  the  one  great  cedar-tree  that  rose  sombre  in  the 
midst  of  the  grassy  lawn,  with  its  little  paradise  of  flowers.  I 
had  thrown  myself  on  the  sward  at  her  feet  ;  her  hand  so  con- 
fidingly lay  in  the  clasp  of  mine.  I  see  her  still — how  young, 
how  fair,  how  innocent ! 

Strange,  strange !  So  inexpressibly  English;  so  thoroughly 
Hie  creature  of  our  sober,  homely  life  !  The  pretty  delicate  white 
robe  that  I  touched  so  timorously,  and  the  ribbon-knots  of  blue 
thai  so  well  become  the  soft  color  of  the  fair  cheek,  the  wavy  silk 
of  the  brown  hair!  She  is  murmuring  low  her  answer  to  my 
trembling  question — 

"  As  well  as  when  last  we  parted  1  Do  you  love  me  as  well 
still  1  " 

"  There  is  no  '  still '  written  here,"  said  she,  softly,  pressing, her 
hand  to  her  heart.     '•  Yesterday  Is  as  to-morrow  .in  the  Forever." 

•'  Ah  !  Lilian,  if  I  could  reply  to  you  in  words  as  akin  to  poetry 
as  your  own." 

"  Fie  !  you  who  affect  not  to  care  for  poetry  J  " 

"  That  was  before  you  went  away — before  I  missed  you  from 
my  eyes,  from  my  life — before  I  was  quite  conscious  how  precious 
you  were  to  me.  more  precious  than  common  words  can  tell  ! 
Yes,  there  is  one  period  in  love  when  all  men  are  poets,  however  the 
penury  of  their  language  may  belie  the  luxuriance  of  their  fancies. 
Whal  would  become  of  me  if  you  Ceased  to  love  me  ?" 

"  Or  of  me,  if  you  ceased  to  love  I  " 


144  .A    STRANG  V.    STORY. 

■'  And  somehow  it  seems  to  me  this  evening  as  if  my  heart  drew 
nearer  to  you — nearer  as  if  for  shelter." 

"  It  is  sympathy."  said  she,  with  tremulous  eagerness;  "  that 
sort  of  mysterious  sympathy  which  I  have  often  heard  you  deny 
or  deride  ;  for  I,  too,  feel  drawn  nearer  to  you,  as  if  there  were  a 
storm  at  hand.  I  was  oppressed  by  an  indescribable  terror  in  re- 
turning home,  and  the  moment  I  saw  you  there  came  a  sense  of 
protection." 

Her  head  sank  on  my  shoulder  ;  we  were  silent  some  moments  ; 
then  we  both  rose  by  the  same  involuntary  impulse,  and  round  her 
slight  form  I  twined  my  strong  arm  of  man.  And  now  we  are 
winding  slow  under  the  lilacs  and  acacias  that  belt  the  lawn. 
Lilian  has  not  yet  heard  of  the  murder,  which  forms  the  one  topic 
of  the  town,  for  all  tales  of  violence  and  blood  affected  her  as  they 
affect  a  fearful  child.  Mrs.  Ash'eigh,  therefore,  had  judiciously 
concealed  (rem  her  the  letters  and  the  journals  by  which  the  dis- 
mal news  had  been  carried  to  herself.  I  need  scarcely  say  that 
the  grim  subject  was  not  broached  by  me.  In  fact,  my  own  mind 
escaped  from  the  events  which  had  of  late  so  perplexed  and  tor- 
mented it;  the  tranquility  of  the  scene,  the  bliss  of  Lilian's  pres- 
ence, had  begun  to  chase  away  even  that  melancholy  foreboding 
which  had  overshadowed  me  in  the  first  moments  of  our  reunion. 
So  we  came  gradually  to  converse  of  the  future — of  the  day,  not 
far  distant,  when  we  two  should  be  as  one.  We  planned  our  bri- 
dal excursion.  We  would  visit  the  scenes  endeared  to  her  by 
song,  to  me  by  childhood — the  basks  and  waves  of  my  native 
Windermere — our  one  brief  holiday  before  life  returned  to  labor, 
and  hearts  now  so  disquieted  by  hope  and  joy  settled  down  to  the 
calm  serenity  of  home. 

And  we  thus  talked,  the  moon,  nearly  rounded  to  her  full,  rose 
amidsr  skies  without  a  cloud.  We  paused  to  gaze  on  her  solemn 
haunting  beauty,  as'  where  are  the  lovers  who  have  not  paused  to 
gaze?  We  were  then  on  the  terrace  walk,  which  commanded  a 
view  of  the  town  be'ow.  Before  us  was  a  parapet  wall,  low  on  the 
garden  side,  but  inaccessable  on  the  outer  side,  forming  part  of  a 
straggling  irregular  street  that  made  one  of  the  boundaries  divid- 
ing Abbey  Hill  from  Low  Town.  The  lamps  of  the  thorough- 
fares, in  many  a  line  and  row  beneath  us,  stre'ched  far  away,  ob- 
scured, here  and  thereby  intervening  roofs  and  tall  church  tow- 
ers. The  hum  of  the  city  came  to  our  ears,  low  and  mellowed  in- 
to a  lulling  sound.  It  was  not  displeasing  to  be  reminded  that 
there  was  a  world  without,  as  close  and  closer  we  drew  each  to 
each — worlds  to  one  another !  Suddenly,  there  carolled  forth  the 
song  of  a  human  voice — a  wild,  irregular,  half-savage  melody — 
foreign,  uncomprehended  words — air  and  words  not  new  to  me. 
1  recognized  the  voice  and  chant  of  Margrave.  I  started,  and 
uttered  an  angry  exclamation. 

"  Hush  ! "  whispered  Lilian,  and  I  felt  her  frame  shiver  within 


A    STRANGE    $TOKY.  14J 

my  encircling  arm.     "Hush!  listen.     Yes;    I   have  beard  that 
voice  before — last  night " 

"  Last  night !  you  were  not  here  ;  you  were  morn  than  a  hun- 
dred miles  away."' 

"  I  heard  it  in  a  dream  !     Hush,  hush  !  " 

Tbe.songrose  louder;  impossible  to  describe  its  effect,  in  the 
midst  of  the  tranquil  night,  chiming  over  the  serried  roof-tops,  and 
under  the  BOlitary  moon.  It  was  not  like  the  artful  song  of  man, 
for  it  was  defective  in  the  methodical  harmony  of  tune  ;  it  was  not 
like  the  song  ofthewild  bird,  for  it  had  no  motony  in  its  sweet- 
ness ;  if  was  wandering  and  various  as :  be  sounds  from  an  yEolian 
harp.  But  it  affected  the  senses  to  a  powerful  degree,  as  in  remote 
lands  and  in  vast  solitudes  I  have  since  found  the  note  of  the 
mocking-bird,  suddenly  heard,  affect  the  listener  half  with  delight, 
half  with  awe,  as  if  some  demon  creature  of  the  desert  were 
mimicking  man  for  its  own  merriment.  The  chant  now  had 
changed  into  an  air  of  defying  glee,  of  menacing  exultation  ;  it 
might  have  been  the  triumphant  war-song  of  some  antique  bar- 
barian iribe.  The  note  was  sinister :  a  shudder  passed  through 
me.  and  Lilian  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  was  sighing  heavily  ;  then 
with  a  rapid  change,  sweet  as  the  coo  with  which  an  Arab  mother 
lulls  her  babe  to  sleep,  the  melody  died  away.  ".There*  there, 
Ion!.,"  murmured  Lilian,  moving  from  me,  "  the  same  I  saw  last 
night  in  sleep  :  the  same  I  saw  in  the  space  above,  on  the  evening 
I  first  knew  you  !  " 

Her  eyes  were  fixed — her  hand  raised  ;  my  looks  followed 
hers,  and  rested  on  the  face  and  form  of  Margrave.  The  moon 
shone  full  upon  him,  so  full  as  if  concentrating  all  its  light  upon 
his  image.  The  place  on  which  he  stood  (a  balcony  to  the  upper 
story  of  a  house  about  fifty  yards  distant)  was  considerably  above 
the  level  of  the  terrace,  from  which  we  gazed  on  him.  His  arms 
were  folded  on  his  breast,  and  he  appeared  to  be  looking  straight 
towards  us.  Even  at  that  distance  the  lustrous  youth  of  Bis 
countenance  appeared  to  me  terribly  distinct,  and  1  lie  light  of  his 
derous  eye  seemed  to  rest  on  us  in  one  lengthened,  steady  raj 
through  the  limpid  moonshine.  Involuntarily  I  seized  Lilian's 
hand,  and  drew  her  away  almost  by  force,  for  she  was  unwilling 
to  move,  and  as  1  led  her  back,  she  turned  her  bead  to  look  round  ; 
I,  loo,  turned  in  jealous  rage  !  I  breathed  more  freely.  Margrave 
had  disappeared. 

"How  came  lie  there  ?  It  is  not  bis  hotel.  Whose  house  is 
it  ?"     I  said  aloud,  though  speaking  to  myself. 

Lilian  remained  silent  :  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  as  if 
in  deep  reverie.  I  took  her  hand  ;  it  did  not  return  my  pressure. 
I  felt  cut  to  the  heart  when  she  drew  coldly  from  me  that 
band,  till  then  so  frankly  cordial.  1  stopped  short:  "Lilian, 
what  is  this  1  you  are  chilled  towards  me.  Cau  the  mere  sound 
10 


146  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

of  that  man's  voice,  the  mere  glimpse  of  that  man's  face,  have 
"  I  paused ;  I  did  not  dare  to  complete  my  question. 

Lilian  lifted  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  I  saw  at  once  in  those  eyes 
a  change.  Their  look  was  cold ;  not  haughty,  but  abstracted.  "  I 
do  not  "understand  you,"  she  said,  in  a  weary,  ljstless  accent.  "  It 
is  growing  late ;  I  must  go  in." 

So  we  walked  on  moodily,  no  longer  arm  in  arm,  nor  hand  in 
hand.  Then,  it  occurred  to  me  that,  the  next  day,  Lilian  would 
be  in  that  narrow  world  of  society  ;  that  there  she  could  scarcely 
fail  to  hear  of  Margrave,  to  meet,  to  know  him.  Jealousy  seized 
me  with  all  its  imaginary  terrors,  and  amidst  that  jealousy  a  no- 
bler, purer  apprehension  for  herself.  Had  I  been  Lilian's  brother, 
instead  of  her  betrothed,  I  should  not  have  trembled  less  to  foresee 
the  shadow  of  Margrave's  .mysterious  influence  passing  over  a  mind 
so  predisposed  to  the  charm  which  Mystery  itself  has  for  those 
whose  thoughts  fuse  their  outlines  in  fancies — whose  world  melts 
away  into  Dreamland.     Therefore  I  spoke. 

"  Lilian,  at  the  risk  of  offending  you — alas  !  I  have  never  done 
so  before  this  night — I  must  address  to  you  a  prayer  which  I  im- 
plore you  not  to  regard  as  the  dictate  of  a  suspicion  unworthy  you 
and  myself.  The  person  whom  you  have  just  heard  and  seen  is, 
at  present,  much  courted  in  the  circles  of  this  town.  T  entreat  you 
not  to  permit  any  one  to  introduce  him  to  you.  I  entreat  you  not 
to  know  him.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  my  reasons  for  this  petition  ; 
enough  that  I  pledge  you  my  honor  that  those  reasons  are  grave. 
Trust,  then,  in  my  truth  as  I  trust  in  yours.  Be  assured  that  I 
stretch  not  the  rights  which  your  heart  has  bestowed  upon  mine  in 
the  promise  I  ask,  as  I  shall  be  freed  from  all  fear  by  a  promise 
which  I  know  will  be  sacred  when  once  i!  is  given." 

"What  promise?"  asked  Lilian,  absently,  as  if  she  had  not  heard 
my  words. 

"What  promise?  Why,  to  refuse  all  acquaintance  with  that 
man  ;  his  name  is  Margrave.     Promise  me,  dearest,  promise  me." 

"  Why  is  your  voice  so  changed  ?"  said  Lilian.  "  It's  tone  jars 
on  my  ear,"  she  added,  with  a  peevishness  so  unlike  her,  that  it 
startled  me  more  than  it  offended;  and,  without  a  word  further,  she 
quickened  her  pace  and  entered  the  house. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  we  were  both  taciturn  and  distant 
towards  each  other.  In  vain  Mrs.  Ashleigh  kindly  sought  to 
break  down  our  mutual  reserve.  I  felt  that  1  had  the  right  to  be 
resentful,  and  I  clung  to  that  right  the  more  because  Lilian  made 
no  attempt  at  reconciliation.  This,  too,  was  wholly  unlike  her- 
self, for  her  temper  was  ordinarily  sweet: — sweet  to  the  extreme 
of  meekness  ;  saddened  if  the  slightest  misunderstanding  between 
us  had  ever  vexed  me,  and  yearning  to  ask  forgiveness  if  a  look 
or  a  word  had  pained  me.  I  was  in  hopes  that,  before  I  Went 
away,  peace  between  us  would  be  restored.  But  long  ere  her 
usual  hour  for  retiring  to  rest,  she  rose  abruptly,  and  complaining 


A    STRANGE    STOKY.  14? 

of  fatigue  and  headache,  wished  nie  good  night,  and  avoided  the 
hand  I  sorrowfully  held  oat  to  her  as  I  opened  the  door. 

"You  must  have  been  very  unkind  to  poor  Lilian,"  said  Mrs. 
Ashleigh,  between  jest  and  earnest.  "  for  I  never  saw  her  so  cross 
to  you  before.     And  the  firsl  day  of  her  return,  too  !" 

"The  fault  is  not  mine,"  said  I,  somewhat  sullenly  ;  "  T  did  but 
ask  Lilian,  and  that  as  a  humble  prayer,  not  to  make  the  acquain- 
tance of  a  stranger  in  this  town  against  whom  I  have  reasons  for 
distrust  and  aversion.  I  know  not  why  that  prayer  should  displease 
her." 

"Nor  I.    Who  is  the  stranger]" 

"A  person  who  calls  himself  Margrave.  Let  me  at  least  en- 
treat you  to  avoid  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  desire  to  make  acquaintance  with  strangers. — 
But,  now  Lilian  is  gone,  do  tell  me  all  about  tins  dreadful  murder? 
The  servants  are  full  of  it,  and  I  cannot  keep  it  long  concealed 
from  Lilian.  1  was  in  hopes  that  you  would  have  broken  it  to 
her." 

1  rose  impatiently  ;  I  could  not  bear  to  talk  thus  of  an  event 
the  tragedy  of  which  was  associated  in  my  mind  with  circum- 
stances so  mysterious.  I  became  agitated  and  even  angry  when 
Mrs.  Ashleigh  persisted  in  rambling  woman-like  inquiries — "  Who 
was  suspected  of  the  deed?  Who  did  1  think  had  committed  it  / 
"What  sort,  of  a  man  was  Sir  Philip?  What  was  that  s'tri 
story  about  a  casket?"  Breaking  from'  such  interrogations,  lo 
which  I  could  give  but  abrupt  and  evasive  answers,  I  seized  my 
hat,  and  took  my  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

LETTER    FROM    ALLEN    FKWVICK    TO    LILIAN    ASHLEIGH. 

"  1  have  promised  to  go  to  Derval  Court  to-day,  and  shall  not 
return  till  to-morrow.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  that  so  many 
hours  should  pass  away  with  one  feeling  less  kind  than  usual  rest- 
ing like  a  cloud  upon  you  and  me,  Lilian,  if  I  offended  you,  for- 
give me  1  Send  me  one  line  to  say  so  ? — one  line  which  I  can 
place  next  niv  heart  and  cover  with  grateful  kisses  tit!  we  meet 
again  V 

REPLY. 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  you  mean,  nor  do  I  quite  understand  my 
own  state  of  mind  at  this  moment.  It  cannot  be  that  I  love  you 
less — and  yet — but  I  will  not  write  more  now.  I  feel  glad  that 
we  shall  not  meet  tbr  the  next  day  or  so,  and  then  I  hope  to  be 
quite  recovered.  I  am  not  well  at  this  moment,  Do  not  ask  me 
to  forgive  you — but  if  it  is  1  who  am  in  fault — forgive  me,  oh,  for- 
give me,  Allen." 


148  A    STRANGE     STORY. 

And  with  this  unsatisfactory  note — not  worn  next  my  heart,  not 
covered  with  kisses,  but  thrust  crumbled  into  my  desk  like  a  cred- 
itor's unwelcome  bill — I  flung  myself  on  my  horse  and  rode  to 
Derval  Court.  I  was  naturally  proud  ;  ray  pride  came  now  to  my 
aid.  I  felt  bitterly  indignant  against  Lilian,  so  indignant  that  I 
resolved  on  my  return  to  say  .to  her,  "  If  in  those  words,  '  And 
yet,'  you  implied  a  doubt  whether  you  loved  me  less,  I  cancel  your 
vows,  I  give  you  back  your  freedom."  And  I  could  have  passed 
from  ber  threshold  with  a  firm  foot,  though  with  the  certainty  that 
I  should  never  smile  again. 

Does  her  note  seem  to  you  who  may  read  these  pages  to  justify 
such  resentment.  ?  Perhaps  not.  But  there  is  an  atmosphere  in 
the  letters  of  the  one  we  love,  which  we  alone — we  who  love — can 
feel,  and  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  letter  I  felt  the  chill  of  the  com- 
ing winter. 

I  reached  the  park  lodge  of  Derval  Court  late  in  the  day.  I  had 
occasion  to  visit  some  patients  whose  houses  lay  scattered  many 
miles  apart,  and  for  that  reason,  as  well  as  from  the  desire  of  some 
quick  bodily  exercise  which  is  so  natural  an  effect  of  irritable  per- 
turbation of  mind,  I  had  made  the  journey  on  horseback  instead 
of  using  a  carriage,  that  I  could  not  have  got  through  the  lanes 
and  field  paths  by  which  alone  the  work  set  to  myself  could  be  ac- 
complished in  time. 

Just  as  1  had  entered  the  park,  an  uneasy  thought  seized  hold 
of  me  with  the  strength  which  is  ascribed  to  presentiments.  I 
had  passed  through  my  study  (which  has  been  so  elaborately  de- 
scribed) to  my  stables,  as  I  generally  did  when  I  wanted  my  sad- 
dle horse,  and,  in  so  doing,  had  doubtless  left  open  the  gate  to  the 
iron  palisade,  and  probably  the  window  of  the  study  itself.  I  had 
been  in  this  careless  habit  for  several  years,  without  ever  once 
having  cause  for  self-reproach .  As  I  before  said,  there  was  noth- 
ing in  my  study  to  tempt  a  thief ;  the  study  shut  out  from  the  body 
of  the  house,  and  the  servant  sure  at  nightfall  both  to  close  the 
window  and  lock  the  gate ; — yet,  now,  for  the  first  time,  I  felt  an 
impulse,  urgent,  keen  and  disquieting,  to  ride  back  to  the  town 
and  see  those  precautions  taken..  I  could  not  guess  why,  but  some- 
thing whispered  to  me  that  my  neglect  had  exposed  me  to  some 
great  danger.  I  even  checked  my  horse  and  looked  at  my  watch  ; 
too  late  ! — already  just  on  the  stroke  o'f  Strahau's  dinner-hour  as 
fixed  in  his  note ;  my  horse,  too,  was  fatigued  and  spent ;  besides, 
what  folly !  what  bearded  man  can  believe  in  the  warnings  of  a 
"presentiment."  I  pushed  on,  and  soon  halted  before  the  old- 
fashioned  flight  of  stairs  that  led  up  to  the  hall.  Here  I  was  ac- 
costed by  the  old  steward  ;  he  had  just  descended  the  stairs,  and, 
as  I  dismounted,  he  thrust  his  arm  into  mine  unceremoniously, 
and  drew  me  a  little  aside. 

"  Doctor,  I  was  right ;  it  was  his  ghost  that  I  saw  by  the  iron 
door  of  the  mausoleum.     I  saw  it  again  at  the  same  place  last 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  149 

night,  but  J  had  no  fit  then.  Justice  on  his.  murderer  !  Blood 
for  blood  ! " 

"  Ay  !"  said  I,  sternly  ;  for  if  I  suspected  Margrave  'before,  I 
felt  convinced  no  w_  that  the  inexpiable  deed  was  his.  Wherefore 
convinced?  Simply  because,  I  now  hated  him  more,  and  hate  is 
so  easily  convinced  !  "  Lilian  !  Lilian  !  "  I  murmured  to  myself 
that  name  ;  the  flame  of  my  hate  was  fed  by  my  jealousy.  "  Ay  !" 
said  I.  sternly,  "murder  will  out,'' 

"  What  are  the  police  about  I  "  said  the  old  man,  querulously  ; 
"  days  pass  on  days,  and  no  nearer  the  truth.  But  what  does  tbe 
new  owner  care  1  He  has  the  reins  and  acres  :  what  does  he  care 
for  the  dead  ?  I  will  never  serve  another  master.  I  have  jus! 
told  Mr.  Straban  so.  How  do  I  know  whether  he  did  not  do  the 
deed  !      Who  else  had  an  interest  in  it." 

"  Hush*  hush  !  "  I  cried;  "you  do  not  know  what  you  say  so 
wildly." 

The  old  man  stared  at  me,  shook  his  head,  released  my  arm,  and 
strode  away. 

A  laboring  man  came  out  of  the  garden,  and  having  unbuckled 
the  saddle-bags,  which  contained  a  few  things  required  for  so 
short  a  visit,  1  consigned  my  horse  to  his  care,  and  ascended  the 
perron.  The  old  housekeeper  met  me  in  the  hall,  conducted  me 
up  the  great  staircase,  showed  me  into  a  bedroom  prepared  for  me, 
and  told  me  that  Mr.  Strahan  was  already  waiting  dinner  for  me. 
I  should  find  him  in  the  study.  I  hastened  to  join  him.  lie  be- 
gan apologizing,  very  unnecessarily,  for  the  state  of  his  establish- 
ment, He  had,  as  yet,  engaged  no  new  servants.  The  house- 
t.  with  the  help  of  a  housemaid,  did  all  the  work. 

Richard  Strahan  at  college  had  been  as  little  distinguishable 
from  other  young  men  as  a  youth  neither  rich  nor  poor,  neither 
clever  nor  stupid,  neither  handsome  nor  ugly,  neither  audacious 
sinner  nor  formal  saint,  possibly  could  be. 

Yet,  to  those  who  understood  him  well,  he  was  not  without  some 
of  those  moral  qualities  by  which  a  youth  of  mediocre  intellect 
Often  matures  into  a  superior  man. 

He  was,  as  Sir  Philip  had  been  rightly  informed,  thoroughly 
!  and  upright,  But  with  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  there  was 
also  a  certain  latent  hardness.  He  was  not  indulgent.  He  had 
outward  frankness  with  acquaintances,  but  was  easily  roused  to 
suspicion.  He  had  much  of  the  thriftiness  and  self-denial  of  the 
North  Countryman,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  had  lived  with 
ealm  content  and  systematic  economy  on  an  income  which  made 
him,  as  a  bachelor,  independent  of  his  nominal  profession,  but 
would  not  have  sufficed,  in  itself,  for  the  fitting  maintenance  of  a 
wile  and  family.     He  was,  therefore,  still  single. 

!l  seemed  to  me,  even  during  the  few  minutes  in  which  we  con- 
versed  before  dinner  was  announced,  that  his  character  showed  a 
new  phase  with  his  uew  fortunes.     He  talked  in  a  grandiose  style 


150  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

of  the  duties  of  station  and  the  woes  of  wealth.  He  seemed  to  be 
very  much  afraid  of  spending,  and  still  more  appalled  at  the  idea 
of  being  cheated.  His  temper,  too,  was  ruffled  ;  the  steward  had 
given  him  notice  to  quit.  Mr.  Jeeves,  who  had  spent  the  morn- 
ing with  him,  had  said  the  steward  would  be  a  great  loss,  and  a 
steward,  at  once  sharp  and  honest,  was  not  to  be  easily  found. 

What  trifles  can  embitter  the  possession  of  great  goods ! 
Strahan  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  old  house  ;  it  was  conformable 
to  his  notions,  both  of  comfort  and  pomp,  and  Sir  Philip  had  ex- 
pressed a  desire  that  the  old  house  should  be  pulled  down.  Strahan 
had  inspected  the  plans  for  the  new  mansion  to  which  Sir  Philip 
had  referred,  and  the  plans  did  not  please  him;  on  the  contrary, 
they  terrified. 

"  Jeeves  says  thai  I  could  not  build  such  a  house  under  seven- 
ty or  eighty  thousand  pounds,  and  then  it  -will  require. twice  the 
establishment  which  will  suffice  for  this.  I  shall  be  ruined,"  cried 
the  man  who  had  just  come  into  possession  of  at  least  twelve 
thousand  a  year. 

"  Sir  Philip  did  not  enjoin  you  to  pull  down  the  old  house  ;  he 
only  advised  you  to  do  so.  Perhaps  he  thought  the  site  less 
healthy  than  that  which  he  proposes  for  a  new  building,  or  was 
aware  of  some  other  drawhack  to  the  house,  which  you  may 
discover  later.     Wait  a  little  and  see  before  deciding." 

"  But,  at  all  events,  I  suppose  I  must  pull  down  this  curious  old 
room — the  nicest  part  of  the  whole  house  !  " 

Strahan,  as  he  spoke,  looked  wistfully  round  at  the  quaint  oak 
chimney-piece  ;  the  carved  ceiling ;  the  well-built  solid  walls, 
with  the  large  mullion  casement,  opening  so  pleasantly  on  the  se- 
questered gardens.  He  had  ensconced  himself  in  Sir  Philip's 
study,  the  chamber  in  which  the  once  famous  mystic,  Forman, 
had  found  a  refuge. 

"  So  cozy  a  room  for  a  single  man  !  "  sighed  Strahan.  "  Near 
the  stables  and  dog-kennels,  too  !  But  I  suppose  I  must  pull  it 
down.  I  am  not  bound  to  do  so  legally  ;  it  is  no  condition  of  the 
will.  But  in  honor  and  gratitude  I  ought  not  to  disobey  poor  Sir 
Philip's  positive  injunction." 

"  Of  that,"  said  I,  gravely,  "  there  cannot  be  a  doubt." 

Here  our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Gates,  who  in- 
formed us  that  dinner  was  served  in  the  library.  Wine  of  great 
age  was  brought  from  the  long-neglected  cellars  ;  Strahan  tilled 
and  refilled  his  glass,  and,  warmed  into  hilarity,  began  to  talk  of 
bringing  old  college  friends  around  him  in  the  winter  season,  and 
making  the  roof-tree  ring  with  laughter  and  song  once  more. 

Time  wore  away,  and  night  had  long  set  in,  when  Strahan  at 
last  rose  from  the  table,  his  speech  thick  and  his  tongue  unsteady. 
We  returned  to  the  study,  and  I  reminded  my  host  of  the  special 
object  of  my  visit  to  him,  namely,  the  inspection  of  Sir  Philip's 
manuscript. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  151 

"  It  is  tough  reading."  said  Strahan  ;  "  better  put  it  off  till  to- 
morrow.    You  will  stay  here  two  or  three  days." 

"No;    I  must  return  to  L to-morrow.     I  cannot   absent 

myself  from  my  patients.  And  it  is  the  more  desirable  that  no 
time  should  be  lost  before  examining  the  contents  of  the  manu- 
script, because  probably  they  may  give  some  clue  to  the  detection 
of  the  .murderer." 

"  Why  do  you  think  that?"  cried  Strahan,  startled  from  the 
drowsiness  that,  was  creeping  over  him. 

"Because  the  manuscript  may  show  that  Sir  Philip  had  some 
enemy — and  who  but  an  enemy  could  have  had  a  motive  for  such 
a  crime  ?  Come,  bring  forth  the  book.  You  of  all  men  are  bound 
to  be  alert  in  every  research  that  may  guide  the  retribution  of 
justice  to  the  assassin  of  your  benefactor," 

"Yes,  yes.  I  will  offer  a  reward  of  iive  thousand  pounds  for 
the  discovery.  Alien,  thai  wretched  old  steward  had  the  inso- 
lence to  tell  me  that  I  was  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  could 
have  an  interest  in  the  death  of  his  master;  and  he  looked  at  me 
as  if  he  thought  that  I  had  committed  the  crime.  You  are  right, 
it  becomes  me,  of  all  men,  to  be  alert.  The  assassin  must  be 
found.     lie  must  hang." 

While  thus  speaking.  Strahan  had  risen,  unlocked  a  desk  which 
stood  on  one  of  the  safes,  and  drawn  forth  a  thick  volume,  the 
contents  of  which  were  protected  by  a  clasp  and  lock.  Strahan 
proceeded  to  open  this  lock  by  one  of  a  bunch  of  keys,  which  he 
said  had  been  found  on  Sir  Philip's  person. 

"  There,  Allen,  this  is  the  memoir,  I  need  not  tell  you  what  store 
1  place  on  it  ;  not,  between  you  and  me,  that  I  expect  it  will  war- 
rant poor  Sir  Philip's  high  opinion  of  his  own  scientific  discover- 
ies. That  part  of  his  letter  seems  to  me  very  queer,  and  very 
flighty.  But  he  evidently  set  his  heart  on  the  publication  of  his 
work,  in  part  if  not  in  whole.  And,  naturally,  I  must  desire  to 
comply  wiih  a  wish  so  distinctly  intimated  by  one  to  whom  I  owe 
so  much.  1  beg  you,  therefore,  not  to  be  too  fastidious.  Some  valu- 
able hints  in  medicine,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  the  manuscript 
will  contain,  and  those  may  help  you  in  your  profession,  Allen." 

"  You  have  reason  to  believe  !      Why  1  " 

••  Oh,  a  charming  young  fellow,  who,  with   most  of  the  other 

gentry  resident  at  L ,  called  on  me  at  my  hotel,  told  me  that 

he  had  traveled  in  the  East,  and  had  there  heard  much  of  Sir 
Philip's  knowledge  of  chemistry,  and  the  cures  he  had  enabled 
him  to  perform." 

"  You  speak  of  Mr.  Margrave.     He  called  on  you  1 " 
'•  Yes." 

"You  did  not,  I  trust,  mention  to  him  the  existence  of  Sir 
Philip's  manuscript." 

"  Indeed  I  did  :  and  I  said  you  had  promised  to  examine  it.    He 


152  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

seemed  delighted  at  that,  and  spoke  most  highly  of  your  peculiar 
fitness  for  the  task." 

-  "  Give  me  the  manuscript,"  said  I  abruptly,  "  and,  after  I  have 
looked  at  it  to-night,  I  may  have  something  to  say  to  you  to-mor- 
row in  reference  to  Mr.  Margrave." 

"  There  is  the  book,"  said  Strahau  ;  "  I  have  just  glanced  at  it, 
and  find  much  of  it  written  in  Latin  :  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
I  have  so  neglected  the  little  Latin  I  learned  in  our  college  days, 
that  I  could  not  construe  what  I  looked  at." 

I  sat  down  and  placed  the  book  before  me ;  Strahan  fell  into  a 
doze,  from  which  he  was  wakened  by  the  housekeeper,  who  brought 
in  the  tea-things. 

"Well,"  said    Strahan,  languidly,   "do  you   find  much  in  the 
book  that  explains  the  many  puzzling  riddles  in  poor  Sir  Philip's 
eccentric  life  and  pursuits  1 " 
x    "  Yes,"  said  I.     "  Do  not  interrupt  me." 

Strahan  again  began  to  doze,  and  the  housekeeper  asked  if  we 
should  want  anything  more  that  night,  and  if  1  thought  I  could 
find  my  way  to  my  bedroom. 

I  dismissed  her  impatiently,  and  continued  to  read. 

Strahan  woke  up  again  as  the  clock  struck  eleven,  and  finding 
me  still  absorbed  in  the  manuscript,  and  disinclined  to  converse, 
lighted  his  candle,  and  telling  me  to  replace  the  manuscript  in  the 
desk  when  I  had  done  with  it,  and  be  sure  to  lock  the  desk  and  take 
charge  of  the  key,  which  he  took  off  the  bunch  and  gave  me,  went 
up  stairs,  yawning. 

I  was  alone,  in  the  wizard  Forman's  chamber,  and  bending  over 
a  stranger  record  than  had  ever  excited  my  infant  wonder,  or,  in 
later  years,  provoked  my  sceptic  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

The  Manuscript  was  written  in  a  small  and  peculiar  handwrit- 
ing, which,  though  evidently  by  the  same  person  whose  letter  to 
Strahan  I  had  read,  was,  whether  from  haste  or  some  imperfection 
in  the  ink,  much  more  hard  to  decipher.  Those  parts  of  the  memoir 
which  related  to  experiments,  or*  alleged  secrets  in  Nature;  that 
the  writer  intimated  a  desire  to  submit  exclusively  to  scholars  or 
men  of  science,  were  in  Latin — and  Latin  which,  though  grammati- 
cally correct,  was  frequently  obscure.  But  all  that  detained  the 
eye  and  attention  on  the  page,  necessarily  served  to  impress  the 
contents  more  deeply  on  remembrance. 


A    STRANGE    STORV.  153 

The  narrative  commenced  with  the  writer's  sketch  of  his  child- 
hood. Both  his  parents  had  died  before  he  attained  Ins  seventh  year. 
The  orphan  had  been  sent  by  his  guardians  to  a  private  school,  and 
his  holidays  had  been  passed  at  Derval  Court.  Here,  his  earliest 
reminiscences  were  those  of  the  quaint  old  room,  in  which  I  now- 
sat,  and  of  his  childish  wonder  at  'the  inscription  on  the  chimney- 
piece — who,  and  what  was  Simon  Formal)  who  had  there  found  a 
refuge  from  persecution?  Of  what  nature  were  the  studies  he  had 
cultivated,  and  the  disooveries  he  boasted  to  have  made  ? 

When  be  was  about  sixteen,  Philip  Derval  had  begun   to,  r 
the  many  mystic  books  which  the  library  contained;    but  wil 
oilier  result  in  his  mind  than  the  sentiment  of  disappoint 
disgust.    The  impressions  produced  on  the  credulous  imagination 
of  childhood  had  vanished.     He  went  to  the  University  ;  was  sen; 
abroad  to  travel :  and' on  his  return  took  that  place  in  the  circles 
of  London  which  is  so  readily  conceded  to  a  young  idler  of  birth 
and  fortune.     He  passed  quickly  over  thai  period  of  his  life,  as  one 
ag&nce  and  dissipation,  from  which  he  was  first  drawn  by 
the  attachment  for  his  cousin  to  which  his  letterto  Straban  referred. 
Disappointed  in  the  hopes  which  that  affection  had  conceived,  and 
his  fortune  d,  partly  by  some  years  of  reckless  profusion, 

and  partly  by  the  pecuniary  sacrifices  at  Which  id  his 

cousin's  marriage  with  another,  he  retired  to  Derval  Court,  to  live 
there  in  solitude  and  seclusion.  On  searching  for  some  old  title- 
required  for  a  mortgage,  he  chanced  upon  a  collection  of 
manuscripts  much  discolored,  and,  in  part,  eaten  away  by  moth  or 
damp.     These,  on  examination,  proved    to   be  the  writings  of  For- 

Some  of  them  were  astrological  observations  and  pi 
lions;    some  were  upon  the  nature  of  the  Cabala;    a  in  the 

invocations  of  spirits  and  the  magic  pf  the  dark  ages.  All  had  a 
certain  interest,  for  they  were  interspersed  with  personal  remarks, 
anecdotes  of  erain<  ■;.  very  stirring  time,  and  were  o 

as  Colloquies,  in  imitation  of  Erasmus;  the  second  person  in 
the  dialogue  being  Sir  Miles  Derval.  the  patron  and  pupil  ;   the 
person  being  Forman,  the  philosopher  and  expounder. 

But  along  with  these  shadowy  Lucubrations  were  treatises  of  a 
more  uncommon  and  a  more  startling  character;  discussions  on 
various  occult  laws  of  nature,  and   detailed   accounts  of  anab 

riments.  These  opened  a  hew,  and  what  seemed  to  Sir  Philip 
a  practical,  Held  of  inquiry — a  true  border,  land  between  natural 
science  and  imaginative  speculation.  Sir  Philip  had  cultivated 
philosophical  science  at  the  university;  he  resumed  the  study,  and 
l  himself  the  truth  of  various  experiments  suggested  by  For- 
man. Some,  to  his  surprise,  proved  successful — some  wdiolly  fail- 
ed. These  lucubrations  first  of  the  memoir 
towards  the  studies  in  which  the  remainder  of  bis  life  had  been 
consumed.  But  he  spoke  of  mis  themselves  as  v 
hie    only   where    suggestive  of   some    truths  which    Forman 


154  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

accidentally  approached,  without  being  aware  of  their  true  nature 
and  importance.  They  were  debased  by  absurd  puerilities,  and 
vitiated  by  the  vain  aud  presumptuous  ignorance  which  character- 
ized the  astrology  of  the  middle  ages.  For  these  reasons  the 
writer  intimated  his  intention  (if  he,lived  to  return  to  England)  to 
destroy  Forman's  manuscripts,  'together  with  sundry  other  books, 
and  a  few  commentaries  of  his  own  upon  studies  which'  had  for  a 
while  misled  him — all  now  deposited  in  the  safes  of  the  room  in 
which  I  sat. 

After  some  years  passed  in  the  retirement  of  Derval  Court,  Sir 
Philip  was  seized  with  the  desire  to  travel,  and  the  taste  he  had 
imbibed  for  occult  studies  led  him  toward  those  Eastern  lands  in 
which  they  took  their  origin,  and  still  retain  their  professors. 

Several  pages  of  the  manuscript  were  now  occupied  with  minute 
statements  of  the  writer's  earlier  disappointment  in  the  objects  of 
his  singular  research.  The  so-called  magicians,  accessible  to  the 
curiosity  of  European  travelers,  were  either  but  ingenious  jugglers, 
or  produced  effects  that  perplexed  him  by  practices  they  had  me- 
chanically learned,  but  of  the  rationale  of  which  they  were  as 
ignorant  as  himself.  It  was  not  till  he  had  resided  some  consider- 
able time  in  the  East,  and  acquired  a  familiar  knowledge  of  its 
current  languages  and  the  social  habits  of  its  various  populations, 
that  he  became  acquainted  with  men  in  whom  he  recognized  earnest 
cultivators  of  the  lore  which  tradition  ascribes  to  the  colleges  and 
priesthoods  of  the  ancient  world  ;  men  generally  living  remote  from 
others,  and  seldom  to  be  bribed  by  money  to  exhibit  their  marvels 
or  divulge  their  secrets.  In  his  intercourse  with  these  sages,  Sir 
Philip  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  there  does  exist  an  art  of 
magic,  distinct  from  the  guile  of  the  conjurer,  and  applying  to  cer- 
tain latent  powers  and  affinities  in  nature  a  philosophy  akin  to  that 
which  we  receive  in  our  acknowledged  schools,  inasmuch  as  it  is 
equally  based  upon  experiment,  and  produces  from  definite  causes 
definite  results.  In  support  of  this  startling  proposition,  Sir  Philip 
now  devoted  more  than  half  bis  volume  to  the  details  of  various 
experiments,  to  the  process  and  result  of  which  he  pledged  his 
guarantee  as  the  actual  operator.  As  most  of  these  alleged  exper- 
iments appeared  to  be  wholly  incredible,  and  as  all  of  them  were 
unfamiliar  to  my  practical  experience,  and  could  only  be  verified  or 
falsified  by  tests  that  would  require  no  inconsiderable  amount  of 
time  and  care,  I  passed,  with  little  heed,  over  the  pages  in  which 
they  were  set  forth.  1  was  impatient  to  arrive  at  that  part  of  the 
manuscript  which  might  throw  light  on  the  mystery  in  which  my 
interest  was  the  keenest.  What  were  the  links  which  connected 
the  existence  of  Margrave  with  the  history  of  Sir  Philip  Derval  ? 
Thus  hurrying  on  page  after  page,  I  suddenly,  toward  the  end  of 
the  volume,  came  upon  the  name  that  arrested  my  attention — 
Haroun  of  Aleppo.  Pie  who  oas  read  the  words  addressed  to  me 
in  my  trance  may  well  conceive  the  thrill  that  shot  through  my 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  155 

heart  when  I  came  upon  that  name,  and  will  readily  understand 
how  much  more  vividly  my  memory  retains  that  part  of  the  manu- 
script to  which  I  now  proceed  than  all  which  had  gone  before. 
*  "It  was,"  wrote  Sir  Philip,  "in  an  obscure  suburb  of  Aleppo 
that  I  at  length  met  with  the  wonderful  man  from  whom  I  have 
ired  a  knowledge  immeasurably  more  profound  and  occult 
than  that  which  may  he  tested  in  the  experiments  to  which  I  have 
devoted  so  large  a  share  of  this  memoir,  llaroun  of  Aleppo  had, 
indeed,  mastered  every  secret  in  nature  which  the  nobler,  or  tl  e- 
urgic.  magic  seeks  to  fathom. 

"He  had  discovered   the   great   Principle  of  Life,  which 
hitherto    baffled  the  subtlest  anatomist  : — provided   only  that    the 
organs  were  not  irreparably  destroyed,  there  was  no  disease 
he  could  not  cure;    no  decrepitude  to  which  he  could  not  re- 
store vigor  ;   vet  his  science  was  based  on  the  same  theory  as  that 
used  by  the  best  professional  practitioners  of  medicine — name- 
ly, thai  the  true  an  of  healing  is  to  assist  Nature  to  thro1 
disease — to  summon,  as  it  were,  the  whole  system  to  eject   the 
enemy  thai  has  fastened  on  a  part.    And  thus  bJ8  processes,  I  hough 
ionally  varying  in  the  means  employed,  ad  combined  in  this — 
namely, the  reinvigorating  and  recruiting  of  the  principle  of  life." 

No  one  knew  the  birth  or  origin  of  llaroun  ;  no  one  knew  his  age. 
In  outward  appearance  he  was  in  the  strength  and  prime  of  mature 
manhood,  lint,  according  to  testimonies  in  which  the  writer  of  the 
memoir  expressed  a  belief  that.  I  need  scarcely  say.  appeared  to 
me  cgregiously  credulous, Ilarouifsexisteiice  under  the  same  name, 
and  known  by  the  same  repute,  could  be  traced  bad;  io  more  than 
a  hundred  years,  lie  told  Sir  Philip  that  he  had  thrice  renewed 
his  own  lilt\  and  had  resolved  to  do  so  no  more — he  had  grown 
weary  of  living  on.  With  all  his  gifts,  llaroun  owned  himself  to 
be  consumed  by  a  profound  melancholy.  He  complained  that  there 
was  nothing  new  to  him  under  the  sun  ;  be  said  that,  while  he  had 
at  his  command  unlimited  wealth,  wealth  had  ceased  to  bestow  en- 
joyment ;  and  he  preferred  living  as  simply  as  a  peasant:  he  had 
tired  out  all  the  affections  and  all  the  passions  of  the  humati  heart; 
he  was  in  the  universe  as  in  ;i  solitude.  In  a  word,  llaroun  would 
often  repeat,  with  mournful  solemnity,  "The  soul  is  not  meant  to 
inhabit  this  earth,  and  in  fleshy  tabernacle,  for  more  than  the  pe- 
riod usually  assign*  d  to  mortals  ;  and  when  by  art  in  repairing  the 
walls  of  the  body,  we  so  retain  it,  the  soul  repines,  becomes  inert 
or  dejected."  "lie  only,'"  said  llaroun,  "would  feel  continued 
joy  in  existence  who  could  preserve  in  perfection  the  sensual  pan 
ot  man,  with  such  mind  or  reason  as  may  he  independent  of  the 
Bpiril  ual  essence  ;  hut  whom  soul  itself  has  quitted  !  Man,  in  short, 
as  the  grandest  of  the  animals,  hut  without  the  sublime  discon- 
tent of  earth,  which  is  the  peculiar  attribute  of  sdul.'-' 

One  evening  Sir  Philip  was  surprised,  to  nnd  at  llaroun's  house 
another  European,     lie  paused  in  his  narrative  to  describe  this 


156  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

man.  He  said  that  for  three  or  four  years  previously  he  had  heard 
frequent  mention,  amongst  the  cultivators  of  magic,  of  an  oriental- 
ized Englishman  engaged  in  researches  similar  to  his  own,  and  to  i 
whom  was  ascribed  a  terrible  knowledge  in  those  branches  of  tie 
art  which,  even  in  the  East,  are  condemned  as  instrumental  to  evil. 
Sir  Philip  here  distinguished  at  length,  as  he  had  so  briefly  distin- 
guished in  his  conversation  with  me,  between  the  two  kinds  of 
magic — that  which  he  alleged  to  be  as  pure  from  sin  as  any  other 
species  of  experimental  knowledge,  and  that  by  which  the  agen- 
cies of  witchcraft  are  invoked  for  the  purposes  of  guilt. 

The  Englishman,  to  whom  the  culture  of  this  latter  and  darker 
kind  of  magic  was  ascribed,  Sir  Philip  Derval  had  never  hitherto 
come  across.  He  now  met  him  at  the  house  of  Haroun  ;  decrepit, 
emaciated,  bowed  down  with  infirmities,  and  racked  with  pain. — 
Though  little  more  than  sixty,  his  aspect  was  that  of  extreme  old 
age,  but  still  on  his  face  there  were  seen  the  ruins  of  a  once  singu- 
lar beauty  ;  and  still,  in  his  mind,  there  was  a  force  that  contrasted 
the  decay  of  the  body.  Sir  Philip  had  never  met  with  an  intellect 
more  powerful  and  more  corrupt.  The  son  of  a  notorious  usurer, 
heir  to  immense  wealth,  and  endowed  with  the  talents  which 
justify  ambition,  he  had  entered  upon  life  burdened  with  the  odium 
of  his  father's  name.  A  duel,  to  which  he  had  been  provoked  by 
an  ungenerous  taunt  on  his  origin,  but  in  which  a  temperament 
fiercely  vindictive  had  led  him  to  violate  the  usages  prescribed  by 
the  social  laws  that  regulate  such  encounters,  had  subjected  him  to 
a  trial  in  which  he  escaped  conviction,  either  by  a  flaw  in  the  tech- 
nicalities of  legal  proceedure,  or  by  the  compassion  of  the  jury  ; 
but  the  moral  presumptions  against  him  were  sufficiently  strong  to 
set  an  indelible  brand  on  his  honor,  and  an  insurmountable  har- 
rier to  the  hopes  which  his  early  ambition  had  conceived.  After 
this  trial  he  bad  quitted  his  country  to  return  to  it  no  more. — 
Thenceforth,  much  of  his  life  had  been  passed  out  of -sight  or  con- 
jecture of  civilized  men,  in  remote  regions  and  amongst  barbarous 
tribes.  At  intervals,  however,  he  had  reappeared  in  European 
capitals  ;  shunned  by  and  shunning  his  equals,  surrounded  by 
parasites,  amongst  whom  were  always  to  be  found  men  of  consid- 
erable learning,  whom  avarice  or  poverty  subjected  to  the  influ- 
ences of  his  wealth.  For  the  last  nine  or  ten  years  he  had  settled 
in  Persia,  purchased  extensive  lands,  maintained  the  retinue,  and 
exercised  more  than  the  power  of  an  Oriental  prince.  Such  was 
the,  man  who,  prematurely  worn  out,  and  assured  by  physicians 
that  he  had  not  six  weeks  of  life,  had  come  to  Aleppo  with  the 
gaudy  escort  of  an  Eastern  satrap,  had  caused  himself  to  be  borne 
in  his  litter  to  the  mud-hut  of  Haroun  the  Sage,  and  now  called 
on  the  magician,  in  whose  art.  was  his  last  hope,  to  reprieve  him 
from  the — grave. 

He  turned  round  to  Sir  Philip  when  the  latter  entered  the  room, 
and  exclaimed  in  English,  "  I  am  here  because  you  are.     Your 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  157 

intimacy  with  this  man  was  known  to  me.  I  took  your  character 
as  tbe  guarantee  of  his  own,  Tell  me  that  I  am  no  credulous 
dupe.  Tell  him  that  I,  Louis  Grayle,  am  no  needy  petitioner. — 
Tell  me  of  his  wisdom  ;  assure  him  of  my  wealth." 

Sir  Philip  looked  inquiringly  at  Haroun,  who  remained  seated 
on  his  carpet  in  profound  silence. 

"  What  is  it  you  ask  of  Haroun  1  " 

"  To  live  on — to  live  on.  For  every  year  of  life  he  can  give 
me,  I  will  load  these  floors  with  gold." 

"  Gold  will  not  tempt  Haroun." 

"  What  will  ?'" 

"  Ask  him  yourself;  you 'speak  his  language." 

"  I  have  asked  him  ;  he  vouchsafes  me  no  answer." 

Haroun  here  suddenly  roused  himself  as  from  a  reverie.  He 
drew  from  under  his  robe  a  small  phial,  from  which  he  le1  fall  a 
single  drop  into  a  cap  of  water,  and  said,  "  Drink  this  Send  to 
me  to-morrow  for  such  medicaments  as  1  may  prescribe.  Return 
hither  yourself  in  three  days  ;   not  before  !  " 

When  Grayle  was  gone,  Sir  Philip,  moved  to  pity,  asked  Ha- 
roun if,  indeed,  i;  were  within  the  compass  of  his  art  to  preserve 
life  in  a  frame  that  appeared  so  thoroughly  exhausted.  Haroun 
answered.  "  A  fever  may  so  waste  the  lamp  of  life  that  One  ruder 
gust,  of  air  could  extinguish  the  flame,  yet  the  sick  man  recovers. 
This  sick  man's  existence  has  been  one  long  fever  ;  this  sick  man 
can  recover  " 

"  You  will  aid  him  to  do  so?" 

"  Three  days  hence  I  will  tell  you." 

On  the  third  day  Grayle  revisited  Haroun,  and,  at  Haroun's  re- 
quest, Sir  Philip  came  also.  Grayle  declared  that  he  had  already 
derived  unspeakable  relief  from  the  remedies  administered 
was  lavish  in  expressions  of  gratitude  :  pressed  large  gifts  on 
Haroun,  and  seemed  pained  when  they  were  refused.  This  time, 
Haroun  conversed  freely,  drawing  forth  Grayle's  own  irregular, 
perverted,  stern:;,-,  but  powerful  intellect. 

I  can  best  convey  the  general  nature  of  Grayle's  share  in  the 
dialogue  be: ween  himself.  Haroun  and  Derval — recorded  in  the 
narrative  in  words  which  1  cannot  trust  my  memory  to  repeat  in 
detail — by  stating  the  effect  it  produced  on  my  own  mind,  it 
seemed,  while  I  read,  as  if  there  passed  before  me  some  convul- 
sion of  Nature — a  storm,  an  earthquake.  Outcries  oi  rage,  of 
scorn,  of  despair  ;  a  despot's  vehemence  of  will;  a  rebels  scoff 
at  authority.  Yet,  ever  and  anon,  some  swe.l  of  lofty  thought, 
some  burst  of  passionate  genius — abrupt  variations  from  the  vaunt 
of  superb  defiance  to  the  wail  of  intense  remorse. 

The  whole  had  in  il.  I  know  UOl  what,  of  uncouth  bill  colossal — 

like  the  cham.  in  the  old  lyrical  tragedy, of  one  of  those  mythi- 
cal giants,  who,  proud  of  descent  from  Night  and  Chaos,  had  held 
sway  over  the  elements,  while  still  crude  and  conflicting,  to  bo 


15S  A    STRANGK    STORY. 

crushed  under  the  rocks,  upheaved  in  their  struggle,  as  Order  and 
Harmony  subjected  a  brightening  Creation  to  the  milder  Influences 
personified  and  throned"  in  Olympus.  But  it  was  not  till  the  ' 
later  passages  of  the  dialogue  in  which  my  interest  was  now  ab- 
sorbed, that  the  language  ascribed  to  this  sinister  personage  lost  a 
udoomy  pathos,  not  the  less  impressive  for  the  awe  with  which  it 
was  minted.  For,  till  then,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  in  that  tempes- 
tuous nature  there  were  still  broken  glimpses  of  starry  light ;  that 
a  character  originally  lofty,  if  irregular  and  fierce,  had  been  em- 
bittered by  early  and  continuous  war  with  the  social  world,  and 
had,  in  that  war,  become  maimed  and  distorted;  that,  under  hap- 
pier circumstances,  its  fiery  strength  might  have  been  disciplined 
to  good  ;  that  even  now,  where  remorse  was  so  evidently  poig- 
nant, evil  could  not  be  irredeemably  confirmed. 

At  length  all  the  dreamy  compassion  previously  inspired   van- 
ished in  one  unqualified  abhorrence. 

The  subjects  discussed  changed  from  those  which,  relating  to 
the  common  world  of  men,  were  within  the  scope  of  my  reason. 
Haroim  led  his  wild  guesl  to  boast  of  his  own  proficiency  in  ma 
and,  despite  my  credulity,  I  could  not  overcome  the  shudder  with 
which  fictions/however  extravagant,  that  deal  with  that  dark  Un- 
known abandoned  to  the  chimeras  of  poets,  will,  at  night  and  in 
solitude,  send  through  the  veins  of  men  the  least  accessible  to  im- 
aginary terrors. 

Grayle  spoke  of  the  power  he  had  exercised  through  the  agency 
of  evil'  spirits — a  power  to  fascinate  and  to  destroy.  He  spoke  of 
the  aid  revealed,  to  him,  now  too  late,  which  such  direful  allies 
I  afford,  not  only  to  a  private  revenge,  but  to  a  kingly  ambi- 
tion. Had  he  acquired  the  knowledge  he  declared  himself  to  pos- 
:  before  the  feebleness  of  the  decaying  body  made  it  valueless, 
how  he  could  have  triumphed  over  that  world,  which  had  expelled 
his  youth  from  its  pale  !  He  spoke  of  means  by  which  his  influ- 
ence could  work  undetected  on  the  minds  of  others,  control  agen- 
cies that  could  never  betray,  defy  laws  that  could  never  discover. 
He  spoke  vaguely  of  a  power  by  which  a  spectral  reflection  of  the 
material  body  could  be  cast,  like  a  shadow,  to  a  distance  ;  glide 
through  the  walls  of  a  prison,  elude  the  sentinels  of  a  camp — a 
power  that  he  asserted  to  be — when  enforced  by  concentred  will, 
and  acting  on  the  mind,  where,  in  each  individual,  temptation 
found  mind  the  weakest — almost  infallible  in  its  effect  to  seduce  or 
to  appal.  And  he  closed  these  and  similar  boasts  of  demoniacal 
arts,  which  I  remember  too  obscurely  to  repeat,  with  a  tumultuous 
imprecation  on  their  nothingness  to  avail  against  the  gripe  of 
death.  All  this  lore  he  would  communicate  to  Haroun,  in  return 
for  what  ?  A  boon  shared  by  the  meanest  peasant — life,  common 
life ;  to  breathe  yet  a  while  the  air,  feel  yet  a  while  the  sun. 

Then  Haroun  replied.     He  said,  witli  a  quiet  disdain,  that  the 
dark  art  to  which  Grayle  made  such  boastful  pretence,  was  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  159 

meanest  of  all  abuses  of  knowledge,  rightly  abandoned,  in  all  ages, 
to  the  vilest  natures.  And  then,  suddenly  changing  his  tunc,  be 
spoke,  so  far  as  I  can  remember  the  words  assigned  to  him  in  the 

manuscript,  to  this  efl 

"Fallen  and  unhappy  wretch,  and  you  ask  me  for  prolonged 
life  ! — a  prolonged  curse  to  the  world  and  to  yourself.  Shall  I 
employ  spells  to  lengthen  the  term  of  the  Pestilence,  or  profane 
the  secrets  of  Nature  to  restore  vigor  and  youth  to  the  failing 
energies  of  Crime  ./-- 

Grayle,  as  if  stunned  by  the  rebuke,  fell  on  his  knees  with  de- 
spairing entreaties  that  strangely  contrasted  his  previous  arrogance. 
"And  it  was,"  lie  said,  "because  his  life  had  been  evil  that  he 
dreaded  death,  [f  life  could  be  renewed  lie  would  repent,  he  would 
change;  he  retracted  his  vaunts,  he  would  forsake  the  arts  he  had 
boasted,  he  would  reenter  the  world  as  its  benefactor." 

"So  ever  the  wicked  man  lies  to  himself  when  appalled  b\ 
shadow  of  death,"  answered  Haroun.  "  But  know,  by  the  remorse 
which  preys  on  thy  soul,  that  it  is  not  thy  soul  that  addresses  this 
prayer  to  me.  Oouldst  thou  hear,  through  the  storms  of  the  Mind, 
the  Soul's  melancholy  whisper,  it  would  dissuade  thee  from  a  wish 
to  live  on.  While  1  speak  1  behold  it,  that  son,!  Sad  for/the 
stains  on  its  essence,  awed  by  the  account  it  must  render,  but 
dreading,  as  the  direst  calamity,  a  renewal  of  years  below, — darker 
i  f'aiiis  and  yet  heavier  accounts!  Whatever  the  sentence  it  may 
undergo,  it  has  a  hope  for  mercy  in  the  remorse  which  the  mind 
vainly  struggles  to  quell  But  darker  its  doom  if  longer  retained 
to  earth,  yoked  to  the  mind  that  corrupts  it,  and  enslaved  to  the 
senses  which  thou  bidst  me  to  restore  to  their  tyrannous  forces." 

And  Grayle  bowed  his  head  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
in  silence  and  in  trembling. 

Then  Sir  Philip,  seized  with  compassion,  pleaded  for  him.  "At 
least  could  not  the  soul  have  longer  time  on  earth  for  repentence  '■" 
And  while  Sir  Philip  was  so  pleading,  Grayle  fell  prostrate  in  a 
swoon  like  that  of  death.  When  he.  recovered,  his  head  was  lean- 
ing on  Hamuli's  knee,  and  his  opening  eyes  iixed  on  the  glittering 
phial  which    Haroun    held,  and    from  which    his    lips  had 

moistened. 

"  WonderOus  !  "  he  murmured  ;  "how  I  feel  life  lowing  back  to 
me.     And  that,  then,  is  the  elixir!  it  is  no  fable!  " 

His  hands  stretched  greedily  as  to  seize  (he  phial,  and  he  cried, 

imploringly,  " More,  more !  "  Haroun  replaced  the  vessel  in  the 
folds  of  his  robe  and  answer'  1  : 

"I  will  not  renew  thy  youth,  but  T  will  release  thee  from  bodily 
suffering;  I  will  leave  the  mind  and  the  soul  free  from  the  pangs 
of  the  flesh,  to  reconcile,  if  yet  possible,  their  long  war.  My  skill 
may  afford  thee  months  yet  for  repentance  j  seek,  in  that  interval, 
to  atone  for  the  evil  of  sixty  years;  apply  thy  wealth  where  it 
may  most  compensate  for  injury  done,  most  relieve  the  indigent, 


160  A    STKANGE    STORY. 

and  most  aid  1  he  virtuous.  Listen  to  thy  remorse.  Humble  tby- 
serf  in  prayer." 

Grayle  departed,  sighing  heavily,  and  muttering  to  himself. 

The  next  day  Haroun  summoned  Sir  Philip  Derval  and  said  to 
him  : 

"  Depart  to  Damascus.  In  that  city  the  Pestilence  has  ap- 
peared. Go  thither  thou,  to  heal  and  to  save.  In  this  casket  are 
stored  the  surest  antidotes  to  the  poison  of  the  plague.  Of  that 
essence,  undiluted  and  pure,  which  tempts  to  the  undue  prolonga- 
tion of  soul  in  the  prison  of  flesh,  this  casket  contains  not  a  drop. 
I  curse  not  my  friend  with  so  mournful  a  boon.  Thou  hast  learned 
enough  of  my  art  to  know  by  what  simples  the  health  of  the  tem- 
perate is  easily  restored  to  its  balance,  and  their  path  to  the  grave 
smoothed  from  pain.  Not  more  should  Man  covej  from  Nature  for 
the  solace  and  weal  of  the  body.  Nobler  gifts  far  than  aught  for 
the  body  this  casket  contains.  Herein  are  tin-  essences  which 
quicken  the  life  of  those  duplicate  senses  thai  lie  dormant  and 
coiled  in  their  chrysalis  web,  awaiting  the  wings  <>i'  a  future  de- 
velopment— the  senses  by  which  we  can  see.  (hough  not  with  the 
eye,  and  hej,w,  hut  not  by  the  ear.  Herein  are  links  between  Man's 
mind  and  Nature's  ;  are  secrets  n  even  than 

these — these  extracts  oflighl  winch  enable 
itself  fron  iscriminate  fcual  life, 

from  life  carnal  than  life  intellectual.  Where  thou  secst  some 
noble  intellect,  studious  of  Nature,  intent  upon  Truth,  yet  ignoring 
the  fact  that  all  animal  life  has  a  mind,  and  Man  alone  on  the  i 

i.  and  lias  asked,  from  the  b  Earth 

>Ught  the  Heaven.  '  Have  I  not  a  sold — can  it  perish  .' ' 
—there,  such  aids  to  the  soul,  in  the  inn)  -  ion  vouchsafed 

to  the  mind,  thou  mayst  lawfully  use.     Bui  aiued 

in  this  casket  are  like  all  which  a  mortal  can  win  from  the  mines 
he  explores  ; — good  or  ill  in  their  uses  as  they  pass  to  the  hands  of 
the  good  or  the  evil.  Thou  wilt  never  confide  them  hut  to  those 
wiio  will  not  abuse;  and  even  then,  thou  art  an  adept  loo  versed 
in  the  mysteries  of  Nature  not  to  discriminate  between  the  powers 
that  may  serve  the  good  to  good  ends,  and  the  powers  thai 
tempt  the  good — where  less  wise  than  experience  has  made  thee  and 
me — to  the  ends  that  are  evil;  and  not  even  to  thy  friend,  the 
most  virtuous — if  less  proof  against  passion,  than  thou  and  I 
have  become — wilt  thou  confide  such  contents  of  the  casket  as  may 
work  on  the  fancy,  deafen  the  conscience,  and  imperil  the  soul." 

Sir  Philip  took  the  casket,  and  with  it  directians  for  use,  which 
he  did  not  detail.  He  then  spoke  to  Haroun  about  Louis  Gra 
who  had  inspired  him  with  a  mingled  sentiment  of  admiration  and 
abhorrence;  of  pity  and  terror.  And  Haroun  answered.  Repeat- 
ing, thus,  the  words  ascribed  to  him,  so  far  as  I  can  trust,  in  re- 
gard to  them — as  to  all  else  in  this  marvelous  narrative — to  a 
memory  habitually  tenacious  even  in  ordinary  matters,  and  strained 


A    STBAlfOB   bTuiiV.  lol 

to  the  utmost  extent  of  its  power,  by  the  strangeness  ojF  the  ideas 
presented  to  it,  and  the  intensity  of  my  personal  interesl  in  v. 
ever  admitted  a  ray  into  thai  eioud  wnicb,  gathering  fast  over  my 

IB,  now  threatened  storm  to  my  affections'  : 
"  When  the  mortal  deliberately  allies  himself  to  the  spin 
evil,  he  surrenders  the  citadel  of  his  being  to  the  guard  of  its  6W  - 
mies;  and  those  who  look  from  without  can  only  dimly  guess  what 
passes  within  the  precincts  abandoned  to  Towers  whose  very  na- 
ture-We  shrink  to  contemplate,  lest  our  mere  gaze  should  invite 
them.  This  man.  whom  thou  pitiest,  is  not  yet  everlastingly  con- 
signed to  the  fiends ;  because  his  soul  still  struggles  against  them. 
His  life  has  been  one  long  war  between  his  intellect,  which  is  mighty, 
and  his  spirit,  which  is  feeble.  The  intellect,  armed  and  winged  by 
the  passions,  has  besieged  and  oppressed  the  soul;  but  the  soul 
has  never  ceased  to  repine  and  to  repent.  And  at  moments  it  lias 
gained  its  inherent  ascendancy,  persuaded  revenge  to  drop  the  prey 
it  had  seized,  turned  the  mind  astray  from  hatred  and  wrath  into 
unwonted  paths  of  charity  and  love.  In  the  long  desert  of  guilt, 
there  have  been  green  spots  and  fountains  of  good.  The  fiends 
have  occupied  the  intellect  which  invoked  them,  but  they  have 
never  yet  thoroughly  mastered  the  soul  which  their  presence  ap- 
pals. In  the  struggle  that  now  passes  within  that  breast,  amidst 
the  flickers  d'  waning  mortality,  only  Allah,  whose  eye  I 
slumbers,  can  aid." 

Haroun    continued,  in    words   yel   more  strange  and  yet   more 
deeply  graved  in  my  memory  : 

"There  have  been  men  (thou  mayst  have  known  such),  who,  af- 
ter an  illness  in  which  life  itself  seemed  suspended,  have  arisen,  as 
out  of  a  sleep,  with  characters  wholly  changed.  Before,  perhaps, 
le  and  good  and  truthful,  they  now  become  bitter,  malignant, 
and  false.  To  the  persons  and  the  things  they  had  before  loved, 
they  evince  repugnance  and  loathing.  Sometimes  this  change isso 
marked  and  irrational,  that  their  kindred  ascribe  it  to  madness. 
Not  the  madness  which  affects  them  in  the  ordinary  business  of 
life,  but  that  which  turns  into  harshness  and  discord  the  moral 
harmony  that  results  from  natures  whole  and  complete.  But  then' 
are  dervishes  who  hold  that  in  that  illness,  which  had  for  its  time 
the  likeness  of  death,  the  soul  itself  has  passed  away,  and  an  evil 
genius  has  fixed  itself  into  the  body  and  the  brain,  thus  left  void  of 
their  former  tenant,  and  animates  them  in  the  unaccountable 
change  from  the  past  to  the  present  existence.  Such  mysteries 
have  formed  no  part  of  my  study,  and  1  tell  you  the  conjecture  re- 
ceived in  the  East,  without  hazarding  a  comment  whether  cf  in- 
credulity or  belief.  But  if,  in  this  war  between  the  mind  which  the 
fiends  have  seized  and  the  soul  which  implores  refuse  of  Allah  ;  if, 
while  the  mind  of  yon  traveler  now  covets  life  lengthened  on  earth 
for  the  enjbymentS  it  had  perverted  its  faculties  to  seek  and  to  find 
in  sin,  and  covets  so  eagerly  that  it  would  shrink  from  no  crime, 
11 


162  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

and  revolt  from  no  fiend  that  could  promise  the  gift — the  soul 
shudderingly  implores  to  be  saved  from  new  guilt,  andfvould 
rather  abide  by  the  judgment  of  Allah  on  the  sins  that  have  dark- 
ened it," than  pass  forever  irredeemably  away  to  the  demons  :  if 
this  be  so,  what  if  the  soul's  petition  be  heard — what  if  it  rise  from 
the  ruins  around  it — what  if  the  ruins  be  left  to  the  witchcraft  that 
seeks  to  rebuild  them  1  There,  if  demons  might  enter,  that  which 
they  sought  as  their  prize  has  escaped  them  ;  that  which  they  find 
would  mock  them  by  its  own  incompleteness  even  in  evil.  In  vain 
might  animal  life  the  most  perfect  be  given  to  the  machine  of  the 
flesh ;  in  vain  might  the  mind,  freed  from  the  check  of  the  soul,  be 
left  to  roam  at  will  through  a  brain  stored  with  memories  of  knowl- 
edge and  skilled  in  the  command  of  its .  faculties ;  in  vain,  in  ad- 
dition to  all  that  body  and  brain  bestow  on  .the  normal  condition  of 
man,  might  unhallowed  reminiscences  gather  all  the  arts  and 
charms  of  the  sorcery  by  which  the  fiends  tempted  the  soul,  before 
it  fled,  through  the  passions  of  flesh  and  the  cravings  of  mind : 
the  Thing,  thus  devoid  of  a  soul,  would  be  an  instrument  of  evil, 
doubtless  ;  but  an  instrument  that  of  itself  could  not  design,  in- 
vent and  complete.  The  demons  themselves  could  have  no  per- 
manent hold  on  the  perishable  materials.  They  might  enter  it  for 
some  gloomy  end  which  Allah  permits  in  his  inscrutible  wisdom  ; 
but  they  could  leave  it  no  trace  when  they  pass  from  it,  because 
there  is  no  conscience  where  soul  is  wanting,  The  human  animal 
without  soul,  but  otherwise  made  felicitously  perfect  in  its  mere 
vital  organization,  might  ravage  and  destroy  as  the  tiger  and  the 
serpent  may  destroy  and  ravage,  and  the  moment  after,  would  sport 
in  the  sunlight  harmless  and  rejoicing,  because,  like  the  serpent 
and  the  tiger,  it  is  incapable  of  remorse." 

"  Why  startle  my  wonder,"  said  Derval,  "  with  so  fantastic  an 
image?" 

"  Because,  possibly,  the  'image  may  come  into  palpable  form  ! 
I  know,  while  I  speak  to  thee,  that  this  miserable  man  is  calling 
to  his  aid  the  evil  sorcery  over  which  he  boasts  his  control.  To 
gain  the  end  he  desires,  he  must  pass  through  crime.  Sorcery 
whispers  to  him  how  to  pass  through,  it  secure  from  the  detection 
of  man.  The  soul  resists,  but,  in  resisting,  is  weak  against  the 
tyranny  of  the  mind  to  which  it  has  submitted  so  long.  Question 
me  no  more.  But  if  I  vanish  from  thine  eyes,  if  thou  hear  that 
the  death  which,  to  my  sorrow  and  in  my  foolishness  I  have  failed 
to  recognize  as  the  merciful  minister  of  Heaven,  has  removed  me 
at  last  from  the  earth,  believe  that  the  Pale  Visitant  was  wel- 
come, and  that  I  humbly  'accept  as  a  blessed  release  the  lot  of  our 
common  humanity." 

Sir  Philip  went  to  Damascus.  There,  he  found  the  pestilence 
raging — there,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  cure  of  the  afflicted  ;  in 
no  single  instance,  so,  at  least,  he  declared,  did  the  antidotes  stored 
in  the  casket  fail  in  their  effect.    The  pestilence  had  passed  ;  his 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  163 

medicaments  were  exhausted  j  when  the  news  reached  him  that 
Haroun  was  no  more.    The  Sage  bad  been  found  one  morning, 

lifeless  in  his  solitary  home,  and,  according  to  popular  rumor,  marks 
on  his  throat  betrayed  the  murderous  hand  of  the  strangles  Sim- 
ultaneously, Louis  Grayle  had  disappeared  from  the  city,  and  was 
supposed  to  have  shared  the  fate  of  Haroun,  and  been  Seci 
buried  by  the  assasns  who  had  deprived  him  of  life.  Sir  Philip 
hastened  to  Aleppo.  There,  he  ascertained  that  on  the  night  in 
which  Haroun  died,  Grayle  did  not  disappear  alone  ;  with  him  were 
also  missing  two  of  Ins  numerous  suite;  the  one  an  Aral)  woman, 
named  Ayesha.  who  had  for  some  years  heen  Ins  constant  compan- 
ion, his  pupil  and  associate  in  the  mystic  practices  to  which  his 
intellect  had  heen  debased,  and  who  was  said  to  have  acquired  a 
singular  influence  over  him.  partly  by  her  beauty  and  partly  by 
the  tenderness  with  which  she  had  nursed  him  through  his  long 
decline  :  the  oilier,  an  Indian,  specially  assigned  to  her  service,  of 
whom  all  the  wild  retainers  of  Grayle  spoke  with  detestation  and 
tei  ror.  lie  was  believed  by  them  to  belong  to  that  murderous  sect 
of  fanatics  whose  existence  as  a  community  has  only  recently  been 
made  known  to  Europe,  and  who  strangle  their  dnsnspecting  victim 
in  the  firm  belief  that  they  thereby  propitiate  the  favor  of  the  god- 
dess they  serve.  The  current  opinion  at  Aleppo  was,  that  if  these 
two  persons  had  conspired  to  murder  Haroun,  perhaps  for  the  sake 
of  the  treasures  lie  was  said  to  possess,  it  was  still  more  certain 
that  they  had  made  away  with  their  own  English  Lord,  whether 
for  the  sake  of  the  jewels  he  wore  about  him,  or  for  the  sake  of 
treasures  less  douhtful  than  those  imputed  to  Haroun — and  of 
which  the  hiding-place  would  to  them  be  much  better  known.  "I 
did  not  share  that  opinion,"  wrote  the  narrator;  "fori  assured 
myself  that  Ayesha  sincerely  loved  her  awful  master;  and  that 
love  need  excite  no  wonder,  for  Louis  Grayle  was  one  whom  if  a 
woman,  and  especially  a  woman  of  the  East,  had  once  loved,  before 
old  age  and  infirmity  fell  on  him,  she  would  love  and  cherish  still 
more  devotedly  when  il  became  her  task  to  protect  the  being  who, 
in  his  day  of  power  and  command,  had  exalted  his  slave  into  the 
rank  of  ids  pupil  and  companion.  And  the  Indian  whom  Grayle 
had  assigned  to  her  service,  was  allowed  to  have  that  brute  kind  of 
fidelity  which,  though  it  recoils  from  no  crime  for  a  master,  refuses 
all  crime  against  him. 

"  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Haroun  had  been  murdered  by 
order  of  Louis  (irayle — for  the  sake  of  the  elixir  of  life — murdered 
by  .Luna,  the  Strangler;  and  that  Grayle  himself  had  been  aided  in 
his  (light  from  Aleppo,  and  tended  through  the  effects  of  the  life- 
giving  drug  I  bus  murderously  obtained,  by  the  womanly  love  of 
the  Arab  woman.  Ayesha.  These  convictions  (since  1  could  not — 
without  being  ridiculed  as  the  wildest  of  dupes — even  hinl  at  the 
vital  elixir)  I  failed  to  impress  on  the  Eastern  officials,  or  even  on 
a  countryman  of  my   own   whom   1   chanced  to  find  at  Aleppo. 


L64  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

They  only  arrived  at  what  seemed  the  common-sense  verdict, 
namely,  Haroun  might  have  been  strangled,  or  might  have  died  in 
a  fit  (the  body,  little  examined,  was  buried  long  before  I  came  to 
Aleppo) ;  Louis  Grayle  was  murdered  by  his  own  treacherous  de- 
pendents.    But  all  trace  of  the  fugitives  was  lost. 

"  And  now,"  wrote  Sir  Philip,  "  I  will  state  by  what  means  I 
discovered  that  Louis  Grayle  still  lived — changed  from  age  into 
youth  ;  a  new  form,  a  new  being ;  realizing,  I  verily  believe,  the 
image  which  Haroun's  words  had  raised  up,  in  what  then  seemed 
to  me  the  metaphysics  of  phantasy ;  criminal  without  consciousness 
of  crime  ;  the  dreadest  of  the  mere  animal  race  ;  an  incarnal  ion  of 
the  blind  powers  of  Nature — beautiful  and  joyous,  wanton,  and  ter- 
rible, aod  destroying!  Such  as  ancient  myths  have  personified  in 
the  idols  of  Oriental  creeds  ;  such  as  Nature,  of  herself,  might 
form  man  in  her  moments  of  favor,  if  man  were  wholly  the  animal. 
and  spirit  were  no  longer  the  essential  distinction  between  himself 
and  the  races  to  which  by  superior  formation  and  subtler  percep- 
tions he  would  still  be  the  king. 

"  But  this  being  is  yet  more  dire  and  potentous  than  the  mere 
animal  man,  for  in  him  are  not  only  the  fragmentary  memories  of 
a  pristine  intelligence  which  no  mind,  unaided  by  the  presence  of 
soul,  could  have  originally  compassed,  but  amidst  that  intelligence 
are  the  secrets  of  the  magic  which  is  learned  through  the  agencies 
of  spirits,  to  our  race  the  most  hostile.  And  who  shall  say  whether 
the  fiends  do  not  enter  at  their  will  this  void  and  desterted  temple 
whence  the  soul  has  departed,  and  use  as  their  tools,  passive  and 
unconscious,  all  the  faculties  which,  skilful  in  sorcery,  still  place 
a  Mind  at  the  control  of  their  malice  \ 

"  It  was  in  the  interest  excited  in  me  by  the  strange  and  terrible 
fate  that  befel  an  Armenian  family  with  Which  I  was  slightly  ac- 
quainted, that  I  first  traced,  in  the  creature  I  am  now  about  to 
describe,  and  whose  course  I  devote  myself  to  watch  and  trust  to 
bring  to  a  close — the  murderer  of  Haroun  for  the  sake  of  the  elixir 
of  youth. 

"  In  this  Armenian  family,  there  were  three  daughters  ;  one  of 
them " 

I  had  just  read  thus  far,  when  a  dim  Shadow  fell  over  the  page, 
and  a  cold  air  seemed  to  breathe  on  me.  Cold — so  cold,  that  my 
blood  halted  in  my  veins  as  if  suddenly  frozen  !  Involuntarily  I 
started  and  looked  up,  sure  that  some  ghastly  presence  was  in  the 
room.  And  then,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall,  I  beheld  an  un- 
substantial likeness  of  a  human  form.  Shadow  I  call  it,  but  the 
word  is  not  strictly  correct,  for  it  was  luminous,  though  with  a 
pale  shine.  In  some  exhibition  in  London  there  is  shown  a  curious 
instance  of  optical  illusion  ;  at  the  end  of  a  corridor  you  see,  appa- 
rently in  strong  light,  a  human  skull.  You  are  convinced  it  is 
there  as  you  approach ;  it  is,  however,  only  a  reflection  from  a 
skull  at  a  distance.    The  image  before  me  was  less  vivid,  less 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  165 

seemingly  prominent  than  is  the  illusion  I  speak  of.  I  was  not 
deceived.  I  felt  it  was  a  spectrum,  a  phantasm,  bat  I  felt  no  less 
surely  that  it  was  a  reflection  from  an  animate  form — the  form  and 
the  face  of  Margrave;  it  was  there,  distinct,  unmistakable.  Con- 
ceiving that  he  himself  must  be  behind  me.  I  sought  to  rise,  to  turn 
round,  to  examine.  I  could  not  move  :  limb  and  muscle  were 
over-mastered  by  some  incomprehensible  spell.  Gradual y  my 
senses  forsook  me,  I  became  unconscious  as  well  as  motionless. 
When  I  recovered.  I  heard  the  clock  strike  three.  I  must  have 
been  nearly  two  hours  insensible  ;  the  candles  before  me  were  burn- 
ing low  ;  my  eyes  rested  on  the  table  ;  the  dead  man's  manuscript 
was  gone ! 


CHAPTER   XL. 


The  dead  man's  manuscript  was  gone.  But  how?  A  phantom 
might  delude  my  eye.  a  human  will,  though  exerted  at  a  distance, 
might,  if  the  tales  of  mesmerism  be  true,  deprive  me  of  movement 
and  of  consciousness;  but  neither  phantom  nor  mesmeric  will  could 
surely  remove  from  the  table  before  me  the  material  substance  of 
the  book  that  had  vanished  !  Was  I  to  seek  explanation  in  the 
arts  of  sorcery  ascribed  to  Louis  Grayle  in  the  narrative  ? — I  would 
not  pursue  that  conjecture.  Against  it  my  reason  rose  up  half 
alarmed,  half  disdainful.  Some  one  must  have  entered  the  room — 
some  one  have  re  coved  the  manuscript.  I  looked  round.  The 
windows  were  closed,  the  curtains  partially  drawn  over  the  shut- 
icrs,  as  they  were  before  my  consciousness  had  left  me  ;  all  seemed 
undisturbed.  Snatching  up  one  of  the  candles,  fast  dying  out,  I 
went  into  the  adjoining  library,  the  desolate  slate-rooms,  into  the 
entrance-hall  and  examined  the  outer  door.  Barred  and  locked  ! 
The  robber  had  left  no  vestige  of  his  stealthy  presence. 

I  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  Strahan's  room,  and  tell  him  of  the 
loss  sustained.  A  deposit  had  been  confided  to  me,  and  I  felt  as  if 
there  Were  a  slur  on  my  honor  every  moment  in  which  I  kept  is 
abstraction  concealed  from  him  to  whom  I  was  responsible  for  the 
trust.  I  hastily  ascended  the  great  staircase,  grim  with  faded 
portraits,  and  found  myself  in  a  long  corridor  opening  on  my  own 
bed-room  ;  no  doubt  also  on  Strahan's.  Which  was  his  ?  I  knew 
not.  I  opened  rapidly,  door  after  door,  peered  into  empty  cham- 
bers, went  blundering  on,  when,  to  the  right,  down  a  narrow  pas- 
sage, 1  recognized  the  signs  of  my  host's  whereabout — signs  fami- 
liarly c  immcnplace  and  vulgar,  signs  by  which  the  inmate  of  any 
chamber  in  lodging-house  or  inn  makes  himself  known — a  chair 
before  a  doorway,  clothes  negligently  thrown  ou  it,  beside  it  a  pair 


166  '  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

of  shoes.  And  so  ludicrous  did  such  testimony  of  common  every- 
day life,  of  the  habits  which  Strahan  would  necessarily  hay^e  con- 
tracted in  his  desultory  unluxurious  bachelor's  existence — so  lu- 
dicrous, I  say,  did  these  homely  details  seem  to  me,  sogro  esque- 
ly  at  variance  with  the  wonders  of  which  I  had  been  reading,  with 
the  wonders  yet  more  incredible  of  which  I  myself  had  been  wit- 
ness and  victim,  that,  as  I  turned  down  the  passage,  I  heard  my 
own  unconscious  half-hysterical  laugh  ;  and,  startled  by  the  sound 
of  that  laugh  as  if  it  came  from  some  one,  else,  I  paused,  my  hand 
on  the  door,  and  asked  myself;  "Do  I  dream  1  Am  I  awake  ? 
And  if  awake,  what  am  I  to  say  to  the  commonplace  mortal  I  am 
about  to  rouse?  Speak  to  him  of  a  phantom  !  Speak  to  him  of 
some  weird  spell  over  this  strong  frame  !  Speak  to  him  of  a  mys- 
tic trance  in  which  has  been  stolen  what  he  confided  to  me,  with- 
out my  knowledge  !  What  will  he  say  ?  What  should  I  have 
said  a  week  since  to  any  man  who  told  such  a  tale  to  me  ? "  I  did 
not  wait  to  resolve  these  questions.  I  entered  the  room.  There 
was  Strahan  sound  asleep  on  his  bed.  I  shook  him  roughly.  He 
started  up,  rubbed  his  eyes — "  You,  Allen — you  !  What  the 
deuce  1 — what's  the  matter  1 " 

"  Strahan,  I  have  been  robbed  ! — robbed  of  the  manuscript     yo 
lent  me.     I  could  not  rest,  till  I  had  told  you." 

"  Robbed,  robbed  !     Are  you  serious  !  " 

By  this  time  St^ihan  had  thrown  off  the  bed-clothes,  and  sat, 
upright,  staring  at  me. 

And  then  those  questions  which  my  mind  had  suggested  while  I 
was  standing  at  his  door,  repeated  themselves  with  double  force 
Tell  this  man,  this  unimaginative,  hard-headed,  raw-boned,  sandy- 
haired  North  countryman — tell  this  man  a  story  which  the  most 
credulous  schooi-girl  would  have  rejected  as  a  fable  !     Impossible. 

"  I  fell  asleep,"  said  I,  coloring  and  stammering,  for  the  slight- 
est deviation  from  truth  was  painful  to  me,  "and — and — when  I 
woke — the  manuscript  was  gone.  Some  one  must  have  entered, 
and  committed  the  theft " 

"  Some  one  entered  the  house  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  and  then 
only  steal  a  manuscript  which  could  be  of  no  value  to  him  ! 
Absurd  !  If  thieves  have  come  in,  it  must  be  for  other  objects — 
for  plate,  for  money.     I  will  dress  :  we  will  see  !  " 

Strahan  hurried  on  his  clothes,  muttering  to  himself,  and  avoid- 
ing my  eye.  He  was  embarrassed.  He  did  not  like  to  say  to  an 
old  friend  what  was  on  his  mind,  but.  I  saw  at  once  that  he  sus- 
pected I  had  resolved  to  deprive  him  of  the  manuscript,  and  in- 
vented a  wild  tale  in  order  to  conceal  my  own  dishonesty. 

Nevertheless,  he  proceeded  to  search  the  house.  I  followed 
him  in  silence,  oppressed  with  my  own  thoughts,  and  longing  for 
solitude  in  my  own  chamber.  We  found  nrj  one,  no  trace  of  any 
one,  nothing  to  excite  suspicion.  There  were  but  two  female  ser- 
vants sleeping  in  the  house — the  old  housekeeper,  and  a  country 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  167 

girl  who  assisted  her.      It  wa^  uot  possible  to  suspect  either   of 
these  persons,  but  in  the  course  of  our  search  we  opened  the  doors 

of  their  rooms.  We  saw  that  they  weir  both  in  bed,  both  seem- 
lingly  asleep  ;  it  seemed  idle  to  wake  and  question  them.  When 
the  formality  of  our  futile  investigation  was  concluded,  Stratum 
stopped  at  the  door  of  my  bed-room,  and  for  the  first  time  fixing 
his  eyes  on  me  steadily,  said  : 

"Allen  Fenwiok,  1  would  have  given  half  the  fortune  I  have 
come  into  rather  than  this  had  happened.  The  Manuscript,  as 
you  know,  was  bequeathed  to  mi'  as  a  sacred  trust  by  a  benefac- 
tor whose  slightest  wish  it  is  my  duty  to  observe  religiously.  If 
it  contained  aught  valuable  to  a  man  of  your  knowledge  and  pro- 
fession— why,  you  were  free  to  use  its  contents.  Let  me  hope. 
Allen,  that  the  hook  will  reappear  to-morrow." 

lie  said  no  more,  drew  himself  away  from  the  hand  I  volunta- 
rily extended,  and  walked  quickly  back  towards  his  own  room." 

Alone  (Mice  more,  I  sank  on  a  seat,  buried  my  face  in  my  hands, 
and  strove  in  vain  to  collect  in  some  definite  shape  my  own  tumul- 
tuous and  disordered  thoughts.  Could  I  attach  serious  credit  to 
the  marvelous  narrative  1  had  read  I  Were  there,  indeed,  such 
powers  given  to  man.'  such  influences  latent  in  the  calm  routine 
of  Nature  /  1  could  not  believe  it;  I  must  have  some  morbid  af- 
fection of  the  brain;  I  must  be  under  an  hallucination.  Hallu- 
cination? The  phantom,  yes — the  trance,  yes.  But,  still,  how 
came  the  book  gone?     That,  at  least,  was  not  hallucination. 

I  left  my  room  the  next  morning,  with  a  vague  hope  that  I  should 
find  the  manuscript  somewhere  in  the  study  ;  that,  in  my  own 
trance,  I  might  have  secreted  it,  as  sleep-walkers  are  said  to  se- 
crete things,  without  remembrance  of  their  acts  in  their  waking 
stale. 

I  searched  minutely  in  every  conceivable  place.  Strahan  found 
me  still  employed  in  that  hopeless  task.  He  had  breakfasted  in 
his  own  room,  and  it  was  past  eleven  o'clock  when  he  joined  me. 
His  manner  was  now  hard,  cold,  ami  distant,  and  his  suspicion  so 
bluntly  shown  that  my  distress  gave  way  to  resentment. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  I  cried,  indignantly,  "  that  you  who  have 
known  me  so  well  can  suspect  me  of  an  act  so  base,  and  so  gratu- 
itously base  ?  Purloin,  conceal  a  book  confided  to  me,  with  full 
power  to  copy  from  it  whatever  I  might  desire,  use  its  contents  in 
any  way  that  might  seem  to  me  serviceable  to  science,  or  useful  to 
me  in  my  own  calling!" 

"  I  have  not  accused  you,"  answered  Strahan,  sullenly.  "  But 
what  arc  we  to  say  to  Mr.  Jeeves*  to  all  others  who  know  that 
this  manuscript  existed  i     Will  they  believe  what  you  tell  me  1 " 

"  Mr.  Jeeves,"  I  said, "  cannot  suspect  a  fellow-townsman,  whose 
character  is  as  high  as  mine,  of  untruth  and  theft.  And  to  whom 
else  have  you  conimunicaied  the  facts  connected  with  a  memoir 
and  a  request  of  so  extraordinary  a  nature  1 " 


168  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  To  young  Margrave ;  I  told  you  so  !" 

"  True,  true.  We  need  not  go  further  to  find  the  thief.  Mar- 
grave has  been  in  this  house  more  than  once.  He  knows  the  po- 
sition of  the  rooms.     You  have  named  the  robber !" 

"Tut!  what  on  earth  could  a  gay  young  fellow  like  Margrave 
want  with  a  work  of  such  dry  and  recondite  nature,  as  I  presume 
my  poor  kinsman's  memoir  must  be  ]" 

I  was  about  to  answer,  when  the  door  was  abruptly  opened,  and 
the  servant  girl  entered,  followed  by  two  men,  in  whom  I  recog- 
nized the  superintendent  of  the  L police,  and  the  same  subor- 
dinate who  had  found  me  by  Sir  Philip's  corpse. 

The  superintendent  came  up  to  me  with  a  grave  face,  and  whis- 
pered in  my  ear.  I  did  not  at  first  comprehend  him.  "  Come  with 
you,"  I  said,  "  and  to  Mr.  Vigors,  the  magistrate  1  I  thought  my 
deposition  was  closed." 

The  superintendent  shook  his  head.  "  I  have  the  authority  here, 
Dr.  Fen  wick." 

"  Well,  I  will  come,  of  course.     Has  anything  new  transpired  V' 

The  superintendent  turned  to  the  servant  girl,  who  was  standing 
with  gaping  mouth  and  staring  eyes.  "Show  us  Dr.  Fen  wick's 
room.  You  had  better  put  up,  sir,  whatever  things  you  have  brought 
here.  I  will  go  up  stairs  with  you,"  he  whispered  again.  "  Come, 
Dr.  Fenwiek,  I  am  in  the  discharge  of  my  duty." 

Something  in  the  man's  manner  was  so  sinister  and  menacing 
that  1  felr,  at  once,  that  some  new  and  si  range  calamity  had  lie- 
fallen  me.  I  turned  towards  Strahan.  He  was  at  the  threshold, 
speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  the  subordinate  policeman,  and  there 
was  an  expression  of  amazement  and  horror  in  his  countenance. 
As  I  came  toward  him,  he  darted  away  without  a  word. 

I  went  up  the  stairs,  entered  my  bed-room,  the  superintendent 
close  behind  me.  As  I  took  up  mechanically  the  few  things  I  had 
brought  with  me,  the  poiice-ofiicer  drew  them  from  me  with  an  ab- 
ruptness that  appeared  insolent,  and  deliberately  searched  the 
pockets  of  the  coat  which  I  had  worn  the  evening  before,  then 
opened  the  drawers  in  the  room,  and  even  pried  into  the  bed. 

"What  do  you  mean  l  "  I  asked,  haughtily. 

"  Excuse  me  sir.     Duty.     You  are " 

"  Well,  I  am  what  ?  "  . 

"My  prisoner;  here  is  the  warrant," 

"  Warrant !  on  what  charge  1 " 

"The  murder  of  Sir  Philip  Derval." 

"  I — I !     Murder  ! "     I  could  say  no  more. 

I  must  hurry  over  this  awful'  passage  in  my  marvelous  record. 
It  is  torture  to  dwell  on  the  details,  and  indeed  I  have  so  sought 
to  chase  them  from  my  recollection,  that  they  only  come  back  to 
me  in  hideous  fragments,  like  the  broken,  incoherent  remains  of  a 
horrible  dream. 

All  that  I  need  state  is  as  follows :     Early  on  the  very  morning 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  169 

on  which  I  had  been  arrested,  a  man,  a  stranger  in  the  town,  had 
privately  sought  Mr.  Vigors,  and  deposed  that,  on  the  nighl  of  the 
murder,  he  had  been  taking  refuge  fronia  sudden  storm  undersbel- 
ter  of  the  eaves  and  buttresses  of  a  wall  adjoining  an  old  arch-way  ; 
that  he  had  heard  men  talking  within  the  arch-way  ;  had  heard 
one  say  to  the  other,  "  You  still  hear  mo  a  grudge/'  The  other 
had  replied,  "  I  can  forgive  you  on  one  condition."  That  he  then 
lost  much  of  the  conversation  that  ensued,  which  was  in  a  lower 
voice;  hut  be  gathered  enough  to  know  that  the  condition  demanded 
by  the  one  was  the* possession  of  a  casket  which  the  other  carried 
about  with  him.  That  there  seemed  an  altercation  on  this  mat 
between  the  two  men.  which,  tit  judge  by  the  tone  of  voice,  was 
j  on  the  part  of  the  man  demanding  the  casket  ;  that,  finally, 
this  man  said,  in  a  loud  key,  "  Do  you  still  refuse  .'  "  and  on  re- 
ceiving the  answer,  which  the  witness  did  not  overhear,  exclaimed, 
threateningly,  "  If  is  you  who  will  repent  ;"  and  then  stepped  forth 
from  the  arch  into  the  street.  The  rain  had  then  ceased,  hut,  by 
a,  broad  dash  of  lightning,  the  witness  saw  distinctly  the  fij 
of  the  person  thus  quitting  the  shelter  of  the  arch  ;  a  man  of  tali 
stat ure.  powerful  frame,  erect  carriage:  A  little  time  afterwards, 
witness  saw  a  slighter  and  older  man  come  from  the1  arch,  whom 
lie  could  only  examine  by  the  dickering  ray  of  the  gas  ramp  near 
the  wall,  the  lightning  having  ceased,  hut  whom  he  fully  be- 
lieved to  be  the  person  he  afterwards  discovered  to  he  Sir  Philip 
Derval. 

lie  said  that  lie  himself  had  only  arrived  at  the  town  a.  few 
hours  before;  a  stranger  to  L ,  and  indeed  to  England  ;  hav- 
ing come   from    the    United    Stales   of  America,   where    he  passed 

his  life  from  childhood,     lie  had  journeyed   on    foot    to    L ,  in 

the  hope  of  finding  there  some  distant  relatives.  He  had  put  ap 
at  a  small  inn,  after  which  he  had  strolled  through  the  town,  when 
the  storm  had  driven  him  to  seek  shelter.  He  had  then  failed  to 
find  his  way  hack  to  the  inn,  and  after  wandering  about  in  vain, 
and  seeing  no  one  at  that  late  hour  of  night  of  whom  he  could 
ask  the  way,  he  had  crept  under  a  portico  and  slept  for  two  or 
three  hours.  Waking  towards  the  dawn,  he  bad  then  got  up,  and 
again  sought  to  find  his  way  to  the  inn,  when  he  saw  in  a.  narrow 
street  before  him  two  men,  one  of  whom  lie  recognized  as  the 
taller  of  the  two,  to  whose  conversation  he  had  listened  under  the 
arch,  the  other  he  did  not  recognize  at  the  moment.  The  taller 
man  seemed  angry  and  agitated,  and  he  heard  him  say,  "  The 
casket;  I  will  have,  it."  There  ihen  seemed  a  struggle  between 
these  two  persons,  when  the  taller  one  struck  down  the  shorter, 
knelt  on  his  breast,  and  he  caught  distinctly  the  gleam  of  some 
steel  instrument.  That  he  was  so  frightened  that  he  could  not 
stir  from  the  place,  and  that  though  he  cried  out.  he  believed  Ids 
voice  was  not  heard,  'lie  then  saw  the  taller  man  rise,  the  other 
testing  on  the  pavement  motionless,  and  a  minute  or  so  afterwards 


170  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

beheld  policemen  coming  to  the  place,  on  which  he,  the  witness, 
walked  away.  He  did  not  know  that  a  murder  had  been  commit- 
ted ;  it  might  be  only  an  assault ;  it  was  no  business  of  his,  he 
was  a  stranger.  He  thought  it  best  not  to  interfere,  the  police- 
men havii;g  cognizance  of  the  affair.     He  found  out  his  inn  ;  for 

the  next  few  days  he  was,  however,  absent  from  L in  search 

of  his  relations  who  had  left  the  town,  many  years  ago,  to  fix  their 
residence  in  one  of  the  neighboring  villages. 

He  was,  however,  disappointed,  none    of  these  relations  now 

survived.    He  had  returned  to  L ,  heard  of  the  murder,  was 

in  doubt  what  to  do,  might  get  himself  into  trouble  if,  a  mere 
stranger,  he  gave  an  unsupported  testimony.  But,  on  the  day  be- 
fore the  evidence  was  volunteered,  as  he  was  lounging  in  the 
streets,  he  had  seen  a  gentleman  pass  by  on  horseback,  in  whom 
he  immediately  recognized  the  man  who,  in  his  belief,  was  the  mur- 
derer of  Sir  Philip  Derval.  He  inquired  of  a  bystander  the  name 
of  the  gentleman,  the  answer  was,  "Dr.  Fenwick."  That,  the  rest 
of  the  day,  he  felt  much  disturbed  in  his  mind,  not  liking  to  volun- 
teer such  a  charge  against  a  man  of  apparent  respectability  and 
station.  But  that  his  conscience  would  not  let  him  sleep  that 
night,  and  he  had  resolved  at  morning  to  go  to  a  magistrate  and 
make  a  elean  breast  of  it. 

This  story  was  in  itself  so  improbable  that  any  other  magis- 
trate but  Mr.  Vigors  would,  perhaps,  have  dismissed  it  in  con- 
tempt. But  Mr.  Vigors,  already  so  bitterly  prejudiced  against,  me, 
and  not  sorry,  perhaps,  to  subject  me  to  the  humiliation  of  so  hor- 
rible a  charge,  immediately  issued  his  warrant  to  search  my 
house.  1  was  absent  at  Derval  Court  ;  the  house  was  searched. 
In  the  bureau  in  my  favorite  study,  which  was  left,  unlocked,  the 
steel  casket  was  discovered,  and  a  large  case-knife,  ou  the  blade 
of  which  the  stains  of  blood  were  si  ill  perceptible.  On  this  dis- 
covery I  was  apprehended)  and  on  these  evidences,  and  on  the  de- 
position of  this  vagrant  stranger,  1  was,  not,  indeed  committed  to 
take  my  trial  for  murder,  bur  placed  in  confinement;  all  bail  for 
my  appearance  refused,  and  the  examination  adjourned  to  give 
time  for  further  evidence  and  inquiries.  I  had  requested  the  pro- 
fessional aid  of  Mr.  Jeew^.  To  my  surprise  and  dismay  Mr. 
Jeeves  begged  me  to  excuse  him.  He  said  he  was  preengaged  by 
Mr.  Strahan  to  detect  and  prosecute  rhe  murderer  of  Sir  P. 
Derval,  and  could  not  assist  one  accused  of  the  murder.  I 
gathered  from  the  little  he  said  that  Strahan  had  already  been  to 
him  that  morning  and  told  him  of  the  missing  manuscript — that 
Strahan  had  ceased  to  be  my  friend.  I  engaged  another  solicitor, 
a  young  man  of  ability,  and  who  professed  personal  esteem  for 
me.  Mr.  Stanton  .(such  was  the  lawyer's  name)  believed  in  my 
innocence  ;  but  he  warned  n>e  that  appearances  were  grave,  he 
implored  me  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  him.  Had  I  held  conver- 
sation with  Sir  Philip  under  the  archway  as  reported  by  the  wit- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  171 

ness  1     Had  I  used   such  or  similar  words  ?     Had  the  deceased 
said,  "I  had  a  gradge  against  him  r"     Had  I  demanded  the 
ket?    Had  I  threatened  Sir  Philip  that  he  would  repent?    And 
of  what  ?     His  refusal  ? 

I  felt  myself  grow  pale  as  I  answered,  "Yes,  I  thought  such 
or  similar  expressions  had  occurred  in  my  conversation  with  the 
deceased." 

"  What,  was  the  reason  of  the  grudge  1     What  was  the  oat 
of  this  casket,  thai  I  Should  so  desire  its  possession  \" 

There,  I  became  terribly  embarrassed.  What,  could  I  Bay  to 
a  keen,  sensible;  worldly  man  of  law.'  Tell  liini  of  the  powder 
and  the  fume,  of  the  scene  in  the  museum,  of  Sir  Philip's  tale,  of 
the  implied  identity  of  the  youthful  Margrave  with  the  aged 
(irayle.  of  the  elixir  of  life,  and  of  magic  arts  I  I  —  1  tell  such  a 
romance!  I,  the  noted  adversary  of  all  pretended  mysticism  ! — 
I — I — a  sceptical  practitioner  of  medicine  !  Had  that  manuscript 
of  Sir  Philip's  been  available — a  substantia]  record  of  marvelous 
events  by   a  man  of  repute   for  intellect   and   learning — I  might, 

perhaps,  have  ventured  to  startle   the  solicitor  of  L witli   my 

revelations.  But  the  sole  proof  that  all  which  the  solicitor  urged 
me  to  confide  was  not  a  monstrous  fiction  or  an  insane  delusion. 
had  disappeared;  and  its  disappearance  was  a  part  of  the  terrible 
mystery  that  enveloped  the  whole.  1  answered,  therefore,  as  oom- 
posedly  as  1  could,  that  "  I  could  h'ave  no  serious  grudge  against 
Sir  Philip,  whom  I  had  never  seen  before  that  evening ;  that  the 
words  which  applied  to  my  supposed  grudge,  were  lightly  said  by 
Sir  Philip  in  reference  In  a  physiological  dispute  on  matters  con- 
nected with  mesmerical  phenomena  ;  that  the  deceased  had  de- 
clared his  casket,  which  he  had  shown  to  me  at  the  mayor's  house, 
contained  drugs  of  great  potency  in  medicine;  that  1  had  asked 
permission  to  I  drugs   myself;    and  that    when    I  said  he 

would  repent  of  his  refusal,  I  merely  meant  that  he  would  repent 
of  reliance  on  drugs  no!  warranted  by  the  experiments  of  pro- 
fessional science." 

My  replies  seemed  to  satisfy  the  lawyer  so  far,  hut  "  How  could 
I  account  for  the  casket  and  the  knife  being  found  in  my  room  ?  " 

"In  no  way  but  this;  the  window  of  that  room  was  a  door- 
window  opening  on  the  lane,  from  which  any  one  might  enter  it, — 
I  was  in  the  habit,  not  only  of  going  oul  myself  that  way,  but  of 
admitting  through  that  door  any  more  familiar  private  acquain- 
tance." 

"  Whom,  for  instance  ?  " 

I  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  a  significance  1  oould 
not.  forbear,  "  Mr.  Margrave  !  He  would  know  the  locale  per- 
fectly :  he  would  know  that  the  door  was  rarely  bolted  from  within 
during  the  daytime:  hfe  could  enter  at  all  hours;  he  could  place, 
or  instruct  any  one  to  deposii,  the  knife  and  casket  in  my  bureau. 
which   he  knew    1    never  kept  Looked  ;   it  contained  no  secrets,  no 


172  A    STRANGE   STORY. 

private   correspondence — chiefly  surgical  implements,  or   such 
things  as  I  might  want  for  professional  experiments." 

"  Mr.  Margrave !  But  you  cannot  suspect  him — a  lively,  charm- 
ing young  man,  against  whose  character  not  a  whisper  was  ever 
heard — of  connivance  with  such  a  charge  against  you  ;  a  conni- 
vance that  would  implicate  him  in  the  murder  itself,  for  if  you  are 
accused  wrongfully,  he  who  accuses  you  is  either  the  criminal  or 
the  criminal's  accomplice  ;  his  instigator  or  his  tool." 

"  Mr.  Stanton,"  I  said  firmly,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  do 
suspect  Mr.  Margrave  of  a  hand  in  this  crime.  Sir  Philip,  on  see- 
ing him  at  the  mayor's  house,  expressed  a  strong  abhorrence  of 
him,  more  than  hinted  at  crimes  he  had  committed  ;  appointed  me 
to  come  to  Derval  Court  the  day  after  that  on  which  the  murder 
was  committed.  Sir  Philip  had  known  something  of  this  Mar- 
grave in  the  East — Margrave  might  dread  exposure,  revelations — 
of  what  I  know  not ;  but,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  it  is  my 
conviction,  that  this  young  man,  apparently  so  gay  and  so  thought- 
less, is  the  real  criminal,  and  in  some  way,  which  I  cannot  con- 
jecture, has  employed  this  lying  vagabond  in  the  fabrication  of  a 
charge  against  myself.  Reflect :  of  Mr.  Margrave's  antecedents 
we  know  nothing  ;  of  them  nothing  was  known  even  by  the  young 
gentleman  who  first  introduced  him  to  the  society  of  this  town. 
It  you  would  serve  and  save  me,  it,  is  to  that  quarter  that  you  will 
direct  your  vigilant  and  unrelaxing  researches." 

I  had  scarcely  so  said  when  I  repented  my  candor  ;  for  I  ob- 
served in  the  face  of  Mr.  Stanton  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  an 
utter  incredulity  of  the  accusation  I  had  thus  hazarded,  and  for  the 
first  time  a  doubt  of  my  own  innocence.  The  fascination  exercised 
by  Margrave  was  universal  ;  nor  was  it  to  be  wondered  at;  for 
besides  the  charm  of  his  joyous  presence,  he  seemed  so  singularlv 
free  from  even  the  errors  common  enough  with  the  young.  So 
gay  and  boon  a  companion,  yet  a  shunner  of  wine ;  so  dazzling  in 
aspect,  so  more  than  beautiful,  so  courted,  so  idolized  by  women, 
yet  no  tale  of  seduction,  of  profligacy,  attached  to  his  name  !  As 
to  his  antecedents,  he  had  so  frankly  owned  himself  a  natural  son, 
a  nobody,  a  traveler,  an  idler  ;  his  expenses,  though  lavish,  were 
so  unostentatious,  so  regularly  defrayed.  He  was  so  wholly  the  re- 
verse of  the  character  assigned  to  criminals,  that  it  seemed  as  ab- 
surd to  bring  a  charge  of  homicide  against  a  butterfly  or  a  gold- 
finch as  against  mis  seemingly  innocent  and  delightful  favorite  of 
humanity  and  nature. 

However,  Mr.  Stanton  said  little  or  nothing,  and  shortly  after- 
wards left  me,  with  a  dry  expression  of  hope  that  my  innocence 
would  be  cleared  in  spite  of  evidence  that,  he  was  bound  to  say, 
was  of  the  most  serious  character. 

I  was  exhausted.  I  fell  into  a  profound  sleep  early  that  night ; 
it  might  be  a  little  after  twelve  when  I  woke,  and  woke  as  fully,  as 
completely,  as  much  restored  to  life  and  consciousness,  as  it  was 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  173 

then  my  habit  to  be  at  the  break  of  day.  And,  so  waking,  I  saw 
on  the  wall,  opposite  my  bed,  the  same  luminous  phantotn  I  bad 
seen  in  the  wizard's  study  at  Derval  Court.  1  have  read  in 
Scandinavian  legends  of  an  apparition  called  the  Sciff-Lffica,  or 
shining  corpse.  It  is  supposed,  in  the  northern  superstition,  some- 
times to  haunt  sepulchres,  sometimes  to  foretell  doom.  It  is  the 
spectre  of  a  human  body  seen  in  a  phosphoric  light.  And  so 
exactly  did  this  phantom  correspond  to  the  description  of  such  an 
apparition  in  Scandinavian  fable,  thai  I  know  not  how  to  give  it  a 
better  name  than  thai  of  Scin-Lseea — the  shining  corpse. 

There  it  was  before  me.  corpse-like,  yet  nol  (lead;  there,  as  in 
the  haunted  study  of  the  wizard  Forman  ! — the  form  and  the  face 
of  Margrave.  Constitutionally,  my  nerves  are  strong,  and  my 
temper  hardy,  and  now  I  was  resolved  to  battle  against  any  im- 
pression which  my  senses  might  receive  from  my  own  deluding  fan- 
cies. Things  that  witnessed  for  the  first  nine  daunt  us,  witnessed 
for  the  second  time  lose  their  terror.  1  rose  from  my  bed  with  a  bold 
aspect,  I  approached  the  phantom  with  a  firm  step  ;  but  when  with- 
in two  paces  of  it,  and  my  hand  outstretched  to  touch  it,  my  arm 
became  fixed  in  air,  my  feel  locked  to  the  ground.  1  did  hot  ex- 
perience fear;  i  felt  that  my  heart  beat  regularly,  but  an  invinci- 
ble something  opposed  itself  to  me.  1  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
and  then  from  the  lips  of  this  phantom  there  came  a  voice,  but  a 
voice  which  seemed  borne  from  a  great  distance — very  low.  mutlled, 
and  yet  distinct  :  I  could  not  even  lie  sure  that  my  ear  heard  it,  or 
whether  the  sound  was  not  conveyed  to  me  by  an  inner  sense. 

"  1,  and  1  alone,  can  save  and  deliver  you,-'  said  the  voice.  "1 
will  do  so,  ami  the  conditions  I  ask,  in  return,  are  simple  and 
easy." 

"Fiend,  or  spectre,  or  mere  delusion  of  my  own  brain,"  cried  1, 
"there  can  be  no  compact  between  thee  ami  me.  1  despise  thy 
malice,  I  reject  thy  services ;  I  accept  no  conditions  to  escape 
from  the  one  or  to  obtain  the  other." 

"You  may  give  a  different  answer  when  I  ask  again." 

The  Scin-Laeca  slowly  waned,  and,  fading  first  into  a  wan  shad- 
ow, then  vanished.  I  rejoiced  at  the  reply  1  had  given.  Two  days 
elapsed  before  Mr.  Stanton  again  came  to  me;  in  the  interval  the 
Scin-Laeca  did  not  reappear.  I  had  mustered  all  my  courage,  all 
my  common  sense,  noted  down  all' the  weak  points  of  the  false  ev- 
idence against  me,  and  felt  calm  and  supported  by  the  strength  of 
my  innocence. 

The  first  few  words  of  the  solicitor  dashed  all  my  courage  to 
the  ground.  For  I  was  anxious  to  hear  news  of  Lilian,  anxious  to 
have  some  message  from  her  that  might  cheer  and  strengthen  me, 
and  my  first  question  was  this  : 

"Mr.  Stanton,  yon  are  aware  that  I  am  engaged  in  marriage  to 
Miss  Ashleigh.  Your  family  are  uot  unacquainted  with  her.  What 


174  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

says,  what  thinks  she  of  this  monstrous  charge  against  her  be- 
trothed 1" 

"  I  was  for  two  hours  at  Mrs.  Ashleigb's  house  last  evening," 
replied  the  lawyer  ;  "  she  was  naturally  anxious  to  see  me  as  em- 
ployed in  your  defence.  Who  do  you  think  was  there?  Who 
eager  to  defend  you,  to  express  his  persuasion  of  your  innocence, 
to  declare  his  conviction  that  the  real  criminal  would  be  soon  dis- 
covered— who  but  that  same  Mr.  Margrave,  whom,  pardon  my 
frankness,  you  so  rashly  and  groundlessly  suspected." 

"Heavens!  Do  you  say  that  he  is  received  in  that  house? 
that  he — he  is  familiarly  admitted  to  her  presence  ?" 

"  My  good  sir,  why  these  unjust  prepossessions  against  a,  true 
friend,     it  was  as  your  friend  that,  as  soon   as   the  charge  against 

you  amazed  and  shucked  the  town   ii  L ,  Mr.  Margrave  called 

on  Mrs.  Ashleigh — presented  bo  her  by  Miss  liraba/.on — and  was 

so  cheering  ami  hopeful  that -" 

"  Enough  !"  I  exclaimed — "  enough  !" 

]  paced  the  room  in  a  state  of  excitement  and  rage,  which  the 
lawyer  in  vain  endeavored  to  calm,  until  at  length  I  halted  abrupt- 
ly :  "  Well — and  you  saw  Miss  Ashleigh  ?  What  message  does 
she  send  to  me — her  betrothed  )" 

Mr.  Stanton  looked  confused.     "Message!     Consider,  sir — Miss 

Ashleigh's  situation — the  delicacy — and — and " 

"  I  understand  !  no  message,  nn  word,  from  a  young  lady  so  re- 
spectable to  a  man  accused    of  murder." 

Mr.  Stanton  was  silent  for  some  moments  ;  anil  then  said  quh 
"  Le!  lis  change  this  subject ;  let  us  think  of  what  more  immedi- 
ately presses.     J  sec  you  have  been   making  some  notes;  may    I 

look  at  them " 

1  composed  myself  and  sat  down.  "This  accuser!  have  in- 
quiries really  been  made  as  to  himself,  and  his  statement  of  ids 
own  proceedings?  lie  comes,  he  says,  from  America — in  what, 
ship  ?  At  what  port  did  he  land  I  I*  there  any  evidence  to  cor- 
roborate his  story  of  the  relations  he  tried  to  discover — of  the  inn 
at  which  he  first  put  up,  and  to  which  he  could  not  find  his  w; 

•'  Your  suggestions  are  sensible,  Dr.  Fenwick.  I  have  forestalled 
them.  It  is  true  that  the  man  lodged  at  a  small  inn — the  Rising 
Sun — true  that  he  made  inquiries  about  some  relations  of  the  name 

of  Walls,  who  formerly  resided  at  L ,  and  afterwards  removed 

to  a  village  ten  miles  distant — two  brothers — tradesmen,  of  small 
means,  but  respectable  character.  He  at  first  refused  to  say  at 
what  seaport  he  landed,  in  wdiat  ship  he  sailed.  1  suspect  that  he 
has  now  told  a  falsehood  as  to  these  matters.  I  have  sent  my 
clerk  to  Southampton — for  it  is  there  he  said  that  he  was  put  on 
shore  ;  we  shall  see — the  man  himself  is  detained  in  close  custody. 
I  hear  that  his  manner  is  strange  and  excitable  ;  but  he  preserves 
silence  as  much  as  possible.  It  is  generally  believed  that  lie  is  a 
bad  character,  perhaps  a  returned  convict,  and  that  this  is  the  true 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  175 

reason  why  he  so  long  delayed  givipg  evidence,  and  has  been  sinee 
so  reluctant  to  account  for  himself,  But  even  if  his  testimony 
should  be  impugned,  should  break  down,  still  we  should  have  to 
account  for  the  fact  that  the  casket  and  the  casedndfe  were  found 
in  your  bureau.  For,  granting  thai  a  person  could,  in  your  ab- 
sence, have  entered  your  study  and  placed  the  articles  in  your 
bureau,  it  is  clear  that  sueh  a  person  musi  have  been  well  ac- 
quainted with  your  house,  and  this  stranger  to  L could  nol 

have  possessed  that  knowledge." 

"  Of  course  not — Mr.  Margrave  did  possess  it  !" 

"Mr.  Margrave  again! — oh.  sir." 

I  arose  and  moved  away  with  an  impatient  gesture.  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  speak.  That  night  1  did  not  sleep  ;  I  watched 
impatiently,  gazing  on  the  opposite  wall,  for  the  gleam  of  the  BcM- 
Leea.      But  the  night  passed  away,  and  the  spectre  did  not  appear. 


CHATTEL   XII. 


The  lawyer  came  the  next  day,  and  almost  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips.  He  brought  me  a  few  lines  in  pencil  from  Mrs.  Ashleigh  ; 
they  were  kindly  expressed,  bade  me  of  good  cheer  ;  "she  never 
for  a  moment  believed  in  my  guilt;  Lilian  bore  up  wonderfully 
under  so  terrible  a  trial  ;  it  was  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  both  to 
receive  the  visits  of  a  friend  so  attached  to  me  and  so  confident  of 
a  triumphant  refutation  of  the  hideous  calumny — under  which  I 
now  suffered — as  Mr.  Margrave  !  " 

The  lawyer  had  seen  Margrave  again — seen  him  in  that  house. 
Margrave  seemed  almost  domiciled  there! 

I  remained  sullen  and  taciturn  during  this  visit.  I  longed  again 
for  the  night.  Night  came.  1  heard  the  distant  clock  strike 
twelve,  when  again  the  icy  wind  passed  through  my  hair,  and 
against  the  wall  stood  the  Luminous  Shadow. 

'•  Have  you  considered  /  "  whispered  the  voice,  still  as  from  afar. 
"  I  repeat  it — I  alone  can  save  you." 

"  Is  it  among  the  conditions  which  you  ask,  in  return,  that  I  shall 
resign  to  you  the  woman  I  love  I  " 

"No." 

"  Is  it  one^of  the  conditions  that  I  should  commit  some  crime — 
a  crime  perhaps  heinous  as  that  of  which  1  am  accused?" 

"  No." 

"  With  such  reservations  I  accept  the  conditions  you  may  name, 
provided  I,  in  my  turn,  may  demand  one  condition  from  .yourself." 

"  Name  it." 


176  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  I  ask  you  to  quit  this  town.  I  ask  you,  meanwhile,  to  cease 
your  visits  to  the  house  that  holds  the  woman  betrothed  to  me." 

"  I  will  cease  those  visits.  And  before  many  days  are  over,  I 
will  quit  this  town." 

"  Now,  then,  say  what  yon  ask  from  me.  I  am  prepared  to  con- 
cede it.  And  not  from  fear  for  myself,  but  because  I  fear  for  the 
pure  and  innocent  being  who  is  under  the  spell  of  your  deadly  fas- 
cination. This  is  your  power  over  me.  You  command  me  through 
my  love  for  another.     Speak." 

"  My  conditions  are  simple.  You  will  pledge  yourself  to  desist 
from  all  charge  or  insinuation  against  myself,  of  what  nature  so- 
ever. You  will  not,  when  you  nleet  me  in  the  flesh,  refer  to  what 
you  have  known  of  my  likeness  in  the  Shadow.  You  will  be  in- 
vited to  the  house  at  which  I  may  be  also  a  guest;  you  will  come; 
you  will  meet  and  converse  with  .me  as  guest  speaks  with  guest  in 
the  house  of  a  host." 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  It  is  all." 

"  Then  1  pledge  you  my  faith  ;  keep  your  own." 

"  Fear  not ;  sleep  secure  in  the  certainty  that  you  will  soon  be 
released  from  these  walls."     . 

The  Shadow  waned  and  faded.  Darkness  settled  back,  and  a 
sleep,  profound  and  calm,  fell  over  me. 

Tue  next  day  Mr.  Stanton  again  visited  me.  He  had  received 
that  morning  a  note  from  Mr  Margrave,  stating  that  he  had  left 

T to  pursue,  in  person,  an  investigation  which  he  had  already 

commenced  through  another,  affecting  the  man  who  had  given  evi- 
dence against  me,  and  that,  if  his  hope  should  prove  Well  founded, 
he  trusted  to  establish  my  innocence,  and  convict  the  real  murder- 
er of  Sir  Philip  Derval.  In  the  research  he  thus  volunteered,  he 
had  asked  for,  and  obtained,  the  assistance  of  the  policeman  Waby, 
who,  grateful  to  me  for  saving  the  life  of  his  sister,  had  expressed 
a  strong  desire  to  be  employed  in  my  service. 

Meanwhile,  my  most  cruel  assailant  was  my  old  college  friend, 
Richard  Strahan.  For  Jeeves  had  spread  abroad  Strahan's  charge 
of  purloining  the  memoir  which  had  been'  inirusted  to. me;  and 
that  accusation  had  done  me  great  injury  in  public  opinion,  because 
it  seemed  to  give  probability  to  the  only  motive  which  ingenuity 
could  ascribe  to  the  foul  deed  imputed  to  me.  That  motive  had 
been  first  suggested  by  Mrs.  Vigors.  Cases  are  on  record  of  men 
whose  life  had  been  previously  blameless,  who  have  committed  a 
crime,  which  seemed  to  belie  their  nature,  in  the  monomania  of 
some  intense  desire.  In  Spain,  a  scholar  reputed  of  austere  morals, 
murdered  and  robbed  a  traveler  for  money  in  order  to  purchase 
books  ;  books  written,  too,  by  Fathers  of  his  Church  !  He  was  in- 
tent on  solving  some  problem  of  theological  casuistry.  In  France, 
an  antiquarian  esteemed  not  more  for  his  learning,  than  for  amiable 
and  gentle  qualities,  murdered  his  most  intimate  friend  for  the  pos- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  177 

session  of  a  medal,  without  which  his  own  collection  was  incom- 
plete. These,  ami  similar  anecdotes,  lending  to  prove  how  fatally 
any  vehement  desire,  morbidly  cherished,  may  suspend  the  normal 
operations  of  reason  and  conscience,  were  whispered  about  by  Dr. 
Llo\  d's  vindiclive  partisan,  and  the  inference  drawn  from  them  and 
applied  to  the  assumptions  against  myself,  was  the  mure  credu- 
lously received,  because  of  that  over-refining  speculation  on  motive 
and  ael  which  the  shallow  accept, in  their  eagerness  to  show  how 
readily  (hey  understand  the  profound 

[  was  known  to  he  fond  of  scientific,  especially  of  chemical  ex- 
periments; to  he  eager  in  testing  the  truth  of  any  novel  invention. 
Strahan,  catching  hold  of  the  magistrate's  fantastic  hypothesis, 
went  about  repeating  anecdotes  of  the  absorbing  passion  for  analy- 
sis and  discovery  which  bad  characterized  me  in  youth  as  a  medi- 
cal student,  and  to  which,  indeed,  I  owed  the  precocious  reputation 
I  had  acquired. 

Sir  Philip  Derval,  according  not  only  to  report,  hut  according  to 
the  direct  testimony  of  his  servant,  had  acquired  in  his  travels 
many  secrets  in  natural  science,  especially  as  connected  with  the 
healing  art — his  servant  had  deposed  to  the  remarkable  cures  he 
4iad  effected  by  the  medicinals  stored  in  the  stolen  casket — doubt- 
less Sir  Philip,  in  boasting  of  these  medicinals  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation,  had  excited  my  curiosity,  influenced  my  imagination, 
and  thus,  when  1  afterwards  suddenly  met  him  in  a  lone  spot,  a 
passi  |  ilse  bad  acted  on  a  brain  heated  into  madness  by 

curiosity  and  covetous  desire. 

All  these  suppositions,  reduced  into  system,  were 'corroborated 
•  irahan's  charge  that  1  had  made  away  with  the  manuscript 
supposed  u>  contain  the  explanations  of  the  medical  agencies  em- 
ployed by  Sir  Philip,  and  bad  sought  to  shelter  my  theft  by  a  tale 
so  improbable,  that  a  man  of  my  reputed  talent  could  no1  have 
hazarded  it  if  in  his  sound  senses.  I  saw  the  web  that  had  thus 
been  spread  round  me.  by  hostile  prepossessions  and  ignorant  gos- 
sip :  how  could  the  arts  of  Margrave  scatter  that  web  to  the  winds? 
1  knew  not.  but  I  felt  confidence  in  his  promise  and  his  power. 
Still,  so  great  had  been  my  alarm  for  Lilian,  that  the  hope  ol  clear- 
ing my  own  innocence  was  almost  lost  in  my  joy  thai  Margrave, 
at  least,  was  no  longer  in  her  presence,  and  that  I  had  received  his 
pledge  to  quil  the  town  in  which  she  lived. 

.  hours  rolled  on  hours,  till,  I  think,  on  the  third  day  from 
that  night  in  which   1   had  last  beheld  the  mysterious  Shadow,  my 
door  was  hastily  thrown  open,  a  confused  crowd  presented  itself  at 
the  threshold — the  governor  of  the  prison,  tin-  police  superintend- 
ent, Mr.  Stanton,  and  other  familiar  faces    shut    out   from  me  i 
my  imprisonment     1  Knew  at  the  first  glance  that  I  was  no  lo 
an  outlaw  beyond  the  pale  of  human  friendship.    And  proudly, 
sternly,  as  I  had  supported  myself  hitherto  in  solitude  and  anxi 
when  ]  felt  warm  hands  clasping  mine,  heard  joyous  voices  proffer- 
12 


178  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

ing  congratulations,  saw  in  the  eyes  of  all  that  my  innocence  had 
been  cleared,  the  revulsion  of  emotion  was  loo  strong  for  me — the 
room  reeled  on  my  sight — I  fainted.  1  pass,  as  quickly  as  I  cam 
over  the  explanations  that  crowded  on  me  when  1  recovered,  mid 
that  were  publicly  given  in  evidence  in  Court  next  morning.  I 
had  owed  all  to  Margrave.  It  seems  that  he  had  construed  to  my 
favor  the  very  supposition  which  had  been  bruited  abroad  to  my 
prejudice.  ''For,"  said  he,  "it  is  conjectured  that  Fenwick  com- 
mitted the  crime  of  which  he  is  accused  on  the  impulse  of  a  dis- 
ordered reason.  That  conjecture  is  based  upon  the  probability 
that  a  madman  alone  could  have  committed  a  crime  without  ade- 
quate motive.  But  it  seems  quite  clear  that  the  accused  is  not 
mad  ;  and  I  see  cause  to  suspect  that  the  accuser  is."  Grounding 
this  assumption  on  the  current  reports  qf  the  wiftM?ss/s  manner  and 
bearing  since  he  had  been  placed  under  official  surveillance,  Mar- 
grave had  commisioned  the  policeman,  Waby,  to  make  inquiries 
in  the  village  to  which  the  accuser  asserted  he  had  gone  in  quest 
of  his  relations,  and  Waby  had,  there,  found  persons  who  remem- 
bered to  have  heard  that  the  two  brothers  named  Walls  lived  less 
by  the  gains  of  a  petty  shop  which  they  kept  than  by  the  pro- 
ceeds oi  some  property  consigned  to  them  as  the  nearest  of  kin  to 
a  lunatic  who  had  once  been  tried  for  his  life.  Margrave  had  then 
examined  the  advertisements  in  the  daily  newspapers.  One  of 
them,  warning  the  public  against  a  dangerous  maniac  who  had 
ejected  his  escape  from  an  asylum  in  the  west  of  England,  caught 
his  attention.     To  that  asylum  he  had  repaired. 

There  he  learned  that  the  patient  advertised  was  one  whose  | 
pensily  was  homicide,  consigned  for  lii'e  to  the  asylum  oi: 
of  a  murder,  for  which  he  had  been  tried.  The  description  of  this 
person  exactly  tailied  with  that  of  the  pretended  American.  The 
medical  superintendent  of  the  asylum,  hearing  all  the  particulars 
from  Margrave,  expressed  a  strong  persuasion  that  the  witness  was 
his  missing  patient,  and  had  himself  committed  the  crime  of  which 
he  had  accused  another.  If  so,  the  superintendent  undertook  to 
coax  from  him  the  full  confession  of  all  the  circumstances.  Like 
many  other  madmen,  and  not  least  those  whose  propensity  is  to 
crime,  the  fugitive  maniac  was  exceedingly  cunning,  treacherous, 
secret,  and  habituated  to  trick  and  stratagem.  More  subtle  than 
even  the  astute  in  possession  of  all  their  faculties,,  whether  to 
achieve  his  purpose  or  to  conceal  it,  and  fabricate  appearances 
against  another..  But,  while,  in  ordinary  conversation,  he  seemed 
rational  enough  to  those  who  were  not  accustomed  to  study  him, 
he  had  one  hallucination  which,  when  humored,  led  him  always, 
not  only  to  betray  himself,  but  to  glory  in  any  crime  proposed  or 
committed.  He  was  under  the  belief  that  he  had  made  a  bargain- 
with  Satan,  who,  in  return  lbr  implicit  obedience,  would  bear  him 
harmless  through  all  the  consequences  of  such  submission,  and 
finally  raise  him  to  great  power  and  authority.     It  is  no  unfrequent 


A    STRANOB    STOBYi  ,  1/9 

illusion  of  homicidal  maniacs  to* suppose  llicy  arc  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Evil  One,  or  possessed  by  a  Demon.  Murderers  have 
assigned  as  the  only  reason  they  themselves  could  give  for  their 

crime,  that -"the  Devil  got  into  them,"  and  urged  the  deed. 

the  insane  have,  perhaps,  no  attribute  more  in  common  than  that 

of  supprweening  self-esteem.    The  maniac  who  has  been  removed 

from  a  garret,  sticks  straws  in  his  hair  and  calls  them  a  crown.  So 
much  does  inordinate  arrogance  characterize  mental  aberration, 
that,  in  the  course  of  my  own  practice,  I  have  detected,  in  that 
infirmity,  the  certain  symptom  of  insanity,  especially  moral  insanity 
lofig  before  the  brain  had  made  its  disease  manifest  even  to  the 
most  familiar  kindred. 

Morbid  Self-esteem  accordingly  pervaded  the  dreadful  illusion 
by  which  the  man  1  now  speak  of  was  possessed.  Be  was  proud 
to  be  the  protected  agenl  of  the  Fallen  Angel.  And  if  that  self- 
esteem  were  artfully  appealed  to,  he  would  exult  superbly  in  the 
evil  he  held  himself  ordered  to  perform,  as  if  a  special  prerogative, 
an  official  rank  and  privilege;  then,  lie  would  he  led  on  to  boast 
sfully  of  thoughts  which  the  most  cynical  of  criminals,  in  whom 
intelligence  was  not  ruined,  would  shrink  from  owning.  Then,  he 
would  reveal  himself  in  all  his  deformity  with  as  complacent  and 
frank  a  self-glorying  as  some  vain  good  man  displays  in  parading 
his  amiable  sentiments  and  his  henehcicut   deeds. 

"If,"  said  the  superintendent,  "this  be  the  patient  who  has 
escaped  from  me,  and  if  his  propensity  to  homicide  lias  been,  in 
some  way  directed  towards  the  person  who  has  been  murdere 
shall  not  be  with  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  will  inform 
me  how  it  happened,  and  detail  the  arts  he  employed  in  shifting  his 
crime  .upon  another — all  will  be  told  as  minutely  as  a  child  tells 
tlie  tale  of  some  school-hoy  exploit,  in  which  he  counts  on  your 
sympathy,  and  feels  sure  of  your  applause." 

Margrave  brought   lids  gentleman  back  to  L ,  took  him  to 

the  mayor,  who  was  one  of  my  warmest  supporters;  the  mayor 
had  sufficient  influence  to  dictate  and  arrange  the  rest.  The  super- 
intendent was  introduced  to  the  room  in  which  the  pretended 
American  was  lodged.  At  his  own  desire  a  select  number  of  wit- 
nesses were  admitted  with  him — Margrave  excused  himself;  he 
said  candidly  that  he  was  too  intimate  a  friend  of  mine  to  be  an 
impartial  listener  to  aught  that  concerned  me  so  nearly. 

The  superintendent  proved  right  in  his  suspicions,  and  verified 
his  promises.  My  false  accuser  w&s  his  missipg  patient ;  the  man 
recognized  Dr.*  *  *  with  no  apparent  terror,  rather  with  an  air 
of  condescension,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  was  led  to  loll  hisown 
tale  with  a  gloating  complacency  both  at  the  agency  by  which  lie 
deemed  himself, exalted,  and  at  the  dexterous  cunning  with  which 
he  had  acquitted  himself  of  the  task,  that  increased  the  horror  of 
his  narrative. 

He  spoke  of  the  mode  of  his  escape,  which  was  extremely  in- 


180  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

genious,  but  of  which  the  details,'  long  in  themselves,  did  not  in- 
terest me,  and  I  understood  them  too  imperfectly  to  repeat.  He" 
had  encountered  a  seafaring  traveler  on  the  road,  whom  he  had 
knocked  down  with  a  stone  and  robbed  him  of  his  glazed  hat  and 
pea-jacket,  as  well  as  of  a  small  sum  in  coin,  which  last  enabled 
him  to  pay  his  fare  in  a  railway  that  conveyed  him  eighty  miles 
away  from  the  asylum.  Some  trifling  remnant  of  this  money  still 
in  his  pocket,  he  then  traveled  on  foot  along  the  high  road  till  he 

came  to  a  town  about  twenty  miles  distant  from  L '■ ;  there  he 

had  stayed  a  day  or  two,  and  there  he  said  "  that  the  Devil  had 
told  him  to  buy  a  case-knife,  which  he  did."  "He  knew  by  that 
order  that  the  Devil  meant  him  to  do  something  great."  "  His 
Master,"  as  he  called  the  fiend,  then  directed  him  the   road   he 

should  take.      He  came  to  L ,  put  up,  as  he  had  correctly 

stated  before,  at  a  small  inn,  wandered  at  night  about  the  town, 
was  surprised  by  the  sudden  storm,  took  shelter  under  the  convent 
arch,  overheard  somewhat  more  of  my  conversation  with  Sir 
Philip  than  lie  had  previously  deposed — heard  enough  to  excite  his 
curiosity  as  to  the  casket:  '"  While  he  listened,  his  Master  told  him 
thai  he  must  get  possession  of  that  casket."  Sir  Philip  had 
quitted  the  archway  almost  immediately  after  1  had  done  so,  and 
he  would  then  have  attacked  him  if  lie  had  not  caught  sight  of  a 
policeman  .going  his  rounds.  He  hail  followed  Sir  Philip  to  a 
house  (Mr.  Jeeve's).  "His  Master  told  him  to  wait  and  watch." 
lid  so.  When  Sir  Philip  came  forth,  towards  the  dawn,  he 
fallowed  him,  saw  him  enter  a  narrow  street,  come  up  to  him,  seized 
him  .  rin,  demanded  all  lie  had  about  him.  Sir  Philip 
tried  to  shake  him  oil' — struck  at  him.  What  follows,  1  spare 
reader.  The  deed  was  done,  lie  robbed  the  dead  man  both  of 
the  casket  and  of  the  purse  thai  he  found  in  the  pockets;  had 
scarcely  done  so  when  be  heard  footsteps.  He  had  just  lime  to 
gel  behind  the  portico  of  a  detached  house  at  angles  with  the 
street,  when  1  came  up.  lie  witnessed,  from  his  hiding-place,  the 
brief  conference  between  myself  and  the  policeman,  and  when  they 
moved  on,  bearing  the  body,  stole  unobserved  away.  He  was  go- 
ing back  towards  the  inn,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be 
safer  if  the  casket  and  purse  were  not  about  his  person  ;  that  he 
asked  his  Master  to  direct  him  how  to  dispose  of  them  ;  that  his 
Master  guided  him  to  an  open  yard  (a  stone  mason's),  at  a  very 
little  distance  from  the  inn ;  that  in  this  yard  there  stood  an  old 
wych-elm  tree,  from  the  gnarled  roots  of  which  the  earth  was  worn 
away,  leaving  chinks  and  hollows,  in  one  of  which  he  placed  the 
casket  and  purse,  taking  from  the  latter  only  two  sovereigns  and 
some  silver,  and  then  heaping  loose  mould  over  the  hiding-place. 
That  he  then  repaired  to  his  inn,  and  left  it  late  inlhe  morning,  on 
the  pretence  of  seeking  for  his  relatives — persons,  indeed,  who  really 
had  been  related  to  him,  but  of  whose  death  years  ago  he  was 
aware.    He  returned  to  L a  few  days  afterwards,  and,  in  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  181 

dead  of  night,  went  to  take  up  the  casket  and  the  money.  He 
found  the  purse  with  its  contents  undisturbed  ;  hut  the  lid  of  the 
casket  was  unclosed.  From  the  hasty  glance  he  had  taken  of  it 
before  burying  it,  it  had  seemed  to  be  firmly  locked — lie  was 
alarmed  lest  some  one  had  been  to  the  spot.  But  his  Master 
whispered  to  him  not  to  mind,  told  him  that  he  might  now  take 
the  casket,  and  would  be  guided  what  to  do  with  it;  that  he 
did  so,  and,  opening  Hie  lid,  found  the  casket  empty  :  thai  be 
took  the  rest  of  the  money  out  of  the  purse,  but  that  he  did  not 
take  the  purse  itself,  for  it  had  a  crest  and  initials  on  it.  which 
might  lead  to  discovery  of  what  had  been  done;  that  he  there- 
fore left  il  in  the  hollow  among  the  roots,  heaping  the  mould  over 
it  as  before;  that,  in  Hie  course  of  the  day,  he  heard  the  people  a! 
the  inn  talk  of  the  murder,  and  that  his  own  first  impulse  was  to 
lid  out  of  the  town  immediately,  but  that  his  Master  "  made  him 
too  wis;'  (•„,•  that,"  and  bade  him  stay  ;  that  passing-  through  the 
streets,  he  saw  me  come  out  of  the  sash-window  door,  go  to  a 
stable-yard  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  mount  on  horseback  and 
ride  away  ;  that  he  observed  the  sash-door  was  left  partially 
open;  that,  he  walked  by  it.  and  saw  the  room  empty  ;  there  was 
only  a  dead  wall  opposite,  the  place  was  solitary,  unobserved;  that 
his  Master  directed  him  to  lift  up  the  sash  gently,  enter  the  room, 
and  deposit  the  knife  and  the  casket  in  a  large  walnut-tree  bureau, 
which  stood  unlocked  near  the  window.  All  that  followed — his 
visit  to  Mr.  Vigors,  his  accusation  against  myself,  his  whole  tale — 
was,  he  said,  dictated  by  his  Master,  who  was  highly  pleased  with 
him,  and  promised  to  bring  him  safely  through.  And  here  he  turned 
round  with  a  hideous  smile,  as  if  for  approbation  of  his  notable 
cleverness  and  respect  for  his  high  employ. 

Mr.  Jeeves  had  the  curiosity  to  request  the  keeper  to  inquire 
how,  in  what,  form,  or  in  what  manner,  the  Fiend  appeared  to  the 
narrator,  or  conveyed  his  infernal  dictates.  The  man  at  first  re- 
fused to  say,  but  it  was  gradually  drawn  from  him  that  the  Demon 
had  no  certain  and  invariable  form;  sometimes  it  appeared  to  him 
in  the  form  of  a  rat;  sometimes  even  of  a  leaf,  or  a  fragment  of 
wood,  or  a  rusty  nail ;  but,  that  his  Master's  voice  always  came  to 
him  distinct,  whatever  shape  he  appeared  in  ;  only,  he  said,  with 
an  air  of  great  importance,  his  Master,  this  time,  had  graciously 
condescended,  ever  since  he  left  the  asylum,  to  communicate  with 
him  in  a  much  more  pleasing  and  imposing  aspect  than  he  had  ever 
dime  before — in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  youth,  or  rather,  like  a 
bright  rose-colored  shadow,  in  which  the  features  of  a  young  man 
were  visible,  and  that  he  had  heard  the  voice  more  distinctly  than 
usual,  though  in  a  milder  tone,  and  seeming  to  come  to  him  from  a 
great,  distance. 

After  these  revelations  the,  man  became  suddenly  disturbed.  He 
shook  from  limb  to  limb,  he  seemed  convulsed  with  terror;  he 
cried  out  that  he  had  betrayed  the  secret  of  his  Master,  who  had 


182       •  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

warned  him  not  to  describe  his  appearance  and  mode  of  communi- 
cation, or  he  would  give  his  servant  up  to  the  tormentors.  Then 
the  maniac's  terror  gave  way  to  fury  ;  his  more  direful  propensity 
made  itself  declared;  he  sprang  into  the  midst  of  his  frightened 
listeners,  seized  Mx-  Vigors  by  the  throat,  and  would  have  strangled 
him  but  for  the  prompt  rush  of  the  superintendent  and  his  sa^elites. 
Foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  horribly  raving,  he  was  then  manacled, 
a  straight- waistcoat  thrust  upon  him,  and  the  group  so  left  him  in 
charge  of  his  captors.  Inquiries  were  immediately  directed  to- 
wards such  circumstantial  evidence  as  might  corroborate  the  de- 
tails he  had  so  minutely  set  forth.  The  purse,  recognized  as  Sir 
Philip's,  by  the  valet  of  the  deceased,  was  found  buried  under  the 
wych-elm.  A  policeman,  despatched,  express,  to  the  town  in 
which  the  maniac  declared  the  knife  to  have  beea  purchased, 
brought  back  word  that  a  cutler  in  the  place  remembered  perfect- 
ly to  have  sold  such  a  knife  to. a  seafaring  man,  and  identified  the 
instrument  when  it  was  shown  to  him.  From  the  chink  of  a  door 
ajar,  in  the  wall  opposite  my  sash-window,  a  maid-servant,  watch- 
ing for  her  sweetheart  (a  journeyman  caipenter,  who  had  habitual- 
ly passed  that  way  on  going  home  to  dine),  had,  though  unob- 
served by  the  murderer,  seen  him  come  out  of  my  window  at  a 
time  that  corresponded  with  the  dates  of  his  own  story,  though 
she  had  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  moment,  He  might  be  a  pa- 
tient, or  have  called  on  business.;  she  did  not  know  that  I  was 
from  home.  The  only  point  of  importance  not  cleared  up  was 
that  which  related  to  the  opening  of  the  casket — the  disappear- 
ance of  the  contents;  the  lock  had  been  unquestionably  forced. 
No  one.  however,  could  suppose  that  some  third  person  had  dis- 
covered the  hiding-place  and  forced  open  the  casket  to  abstract  its 
contents  and  then  rebury  it.  The  only  probable  supposition  was, 
that  the  man  himself  had  forced  it  open,  and,  deeming  the  contents 
of  no  value,  h  d  thrown  them  away  before  he  had  hidden  the  cas- 
ket and  purse,  and,  in  the  chaos  of  his  reason,  had  forgotten  that 
he  had  so  done.  Who  could  expect  that  every  link  in  a  madman's 
tale  would  be  found  integral  and  perfect  1  In  short,  little  import- 
ance was  attached  to  this  solitary  doubt.  Crowds  accompanied 
me  to  my  door,  when  I  was  set  free,  in  open  court,  stainless ;—  it 
was  a  triumphal  procession.  The  popularity  I  had  previously  en- 
joyed, superseded  for  a  moment  by  so  horrible  a  charge,  came  back 
to  me  tenfold,  as  with  the  reaction  of  generous  repentance  for  a 
momentary  doubt,  One  man  shared  the  public  favor— the  young 
man  whose  acuteness  had  delivered  me  from  the- peril,  and  cleared 
the  truth  from  so  awful  a  mystery  ;  but  Margrave  had  escaped 
from  congratulation  and  compliment;  he  had  gone  on  a  visit  to 
Strahan  at  Derval  Court, 

Alone,  at  last,  in  the  welcome  sanctuary  of  my  own  home,  what 
were  my  thoughts  1  Prominent  amongst  'them  all  was  that  asser- 
tion of  the  madman,  which  had  made  me  shudder  when  repeated 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  1S3 

to  me  :  he  had  been  guided  to  the  murder  and  to  all  the  subse- 
quent proceedings  by  the  luminous  shadow  of  the  beautiful 
youth — the  Sein-Lseca  to  which  I  had  pledged  myself.  If  Sir 
Philip  Derval  could  be  believed,  Margrave  was  possessed  of  pow- 
ers, derived  from  fragmentary  recoiled  ions  of  a  knowledge  ac- 
quired in  a  former  state  of  being,  which  would  render  his  remorse- 
less intelligence  infinitely  dire,  and  frustrate  the  endeavors  of  a 
reason  unassisted  by  similar  powers,  to  thwart  his  designs  or 
bring  the  law  against  his  crimes.  Had  he  then  the  arts  that  could 
thus  influence  the  minds  of  others  to  serve  his  fell  purposes,  and 
achieve  securely  his  own  evil  ends  through  agencies  that  could  not 
bo  traced  home  to  himself? 

But  for  what  conceivable  purpose  had  I  been  subjected  as  a 
victim  to  influences  as  much  beyond  my  control  as  the  Fate  or 
Demoniac  Necessity  of  a  Greek  Myth?  In  the  legends  of  the 
classic  world  some  august  sufferer  is  oppressed  by  Towers  more 
than  mortal,  but  with  an  ethical  if  gloomy  vindication  of  his  chas- 
tisement— he  pays  the  penalty  of  crime  committed  by  his  ances- 
tors or  himself,  or  he  has  braved,  by  arrogating  equality  with  the 
gods,  the  mysterious  calamity  which  the  £ods  alone  can  inflict. — 
But  I.  no  descendant  of  Pelops,  or  CEdipus,  boastful  of  a  wisdom 
which  could  interpret  the  enigmas  of  the  Sphinx,  while  ignorant 
even  of  his  own  birth — what  had  I  done  to  be  singled  out  from 
the  herd  of  men  for  trials  and  visitations  from  the  Shadowland  of 
ghosts  and  sorcerers  ?  It  would  be  ludicrously  absurd  to  suppose 
Dr.  Lloyd's  dying  imprecation  could  have  had  a  prophetic 
effect  upon  my  destiny  ;  to  believe  that  the  pretences  of  mesmer- 
ism were  specially  favored  by  Providence,  and  that  to  question 
their  assumptions  was  an  offence  of  profanation  to  be  punished  by 
exposure  to  preternatural  agencies.  There  was  not  even  that 
congruity  between  cause  and  effect  which  fable  seeks  in  excuse 
for  its  inventions.  Of  ail  men  living,  I,  unimaginative  disciple  of 
austere  science,  should  be  the  last  to  become  the  sport  of  that 
witchcraft  which  even  imagination  reluctantly  allows  to  the  ma- 
chinery of  poets,  and  science  casts  aside  into  the  mouldy  lumber- 
room  of  obsolete  supersition. 

Rousing  my  mind  from  enigmas  impossible  to  solve — it  was 
with  intense  and  yet  with  most  melancholy  satisfaction  that  I 
turned  to  the  image  of  Lilian,  rejoicing,  though  with  a  thrill  of 
awe.  that  the  promise  so  mysteriously  conveyed  to  my  senses, 
had,  here  too,  been  already  fulfilled — Margrave  had  left  the  town  ; 
Lilian  was  no  longer  subjected  to  his  evil  fascination.  But  an  in- 
stinct told  me  that  that  fascination  had  already  produced  an  effect 
adverse  to  all  hope  of  happiness  for  me.  Lilian's  love  for  myself 
was  gone.  Impossible  otherwise  that  she — in  whose  nature  I  bad 
always  admired  that  generous  devotion  which  is, more  or  less,  in- 
separable from  the  romance  of  youth— should  have  never  conveyed 
in  me  one  word  of  consolation  in  the  hour  of  my  agony  and  trial  ; 


184  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

that  she  who,  till  the  last  evening  we  had  met,  had  ever  been  so 
docile,  in  the  sweetness  of  a  nature  femininely  submissive  to  my 
slightest  wish,  should  have  disregarded  my  solemn  injunction,  in 
admitting  Margrave  to  acquaintance,  nay,  to  familiar  intimacy ; 
and  at  the  very  time  when  to  disobey  my  injunctions  was  to  em- 
bitter my 'ordeal,  and  add  her  own  contempt  to  the  degradation  im- 
posed upon  my  honor  !  No,  her  heart  must  be  wholly  gone  from 
me  ;  her  very  nature  wholly  warped.  A  union  between  us  had 
become  impossible.  My  love  for  her  remained  unshattered  ;  the 
more  tender,  perhaps,  for  a  sentiment  o!  compassion.  But  my 
pride  was  shocked,  my  heart  was  wounded.  My  love  was  not 
mean  and  servile.  Enough  for  me  to  think  that  she  would  be  at 
least  saved  from  Margrave.  Her  life  associated  with  his  ! — con- 
templation, horrible  and  ghastly  ! — from  that  fate  she  was  saved. 
Later,  she  would  recover  the  effect  of  an  influence  happily  so 
brief.  She  might  form  some  new  attachment — some  new  tie. — 
But  love  once  withdrawn  is  never  to  be  restored — and  her  love 
was  withdrawn  from  me.  I  had  but  to  release  her,  with  my  own 
lips  from  our  engagement — she  would  welcome  that  release. 
Mournful,  but  firm  in  these  thoughts  and  these  resolut  ions,  I  sought 
Mrs.  Ashlefeb's  house. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  was  twilight  when  I  entered,  unannounced  (as  had  been  my 
wont  in  our  familiar  intercourse),  1  lie .quiet  sitting-room  in  which 
I  expected  to  find  mother  and  child.  But  Lilian  was  there  alone, 
seated  by  the  open  window,  her  hands  crossed  and  drooping  on 
her  knee,  her  eye  fixed  upon  the  darkening  summer  skies,  in  which 
the  evening  star  had  just  stolen  forth,  bright  and  steadfast,  near 
the  pale  sickle  of  a  half  moon  that  was  dimly  visible,  but  gave  as 
yet  no  light. 

Let  any  lover  imagine  the  reception  he  would  expect  to  meet 
from  his  betrothed,  coming  into  her  presence  after  he  had  passed 
triumphant  through  a  terrible  peril  to  life  and  fame — and  conceive 
what  ice  froze  my  blood,  what  anguish  weighed  down  my  heart, 
when  Lilian,  turning  towards  me,  rose  not,  speke  not — gazed  at 

me  heedlessly  as  if  at  some  indifferent  stranger — and — and 

But  no  matter  !  I  cannot  bear  to  recall  it  even  now,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  years  !  I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  took  her  hand,  with- 
out pressing  it ;  it  rested  languidly,  passively  in  mine — one  mo- 
ment ; — I  dropped  it  then  with  a  bitter  sigh. 

"  Lilian,"  I  said,  quietly,  "  you  love  me  no  longer.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  looked  at  me  wistfully,  and  pressed 


A   STRANGE    STORY.  1  85 

her  hand  on  her  forehead,  then  said,  in  »a  strange  voice,  "  Did  I 
ever  love  you  ?     What  do  you  mean  C 

" Lilian,  Lilian,  rouse  yourself;  are  you  not,  while  you  speak, 
under  some  spell,  some  influence  which  you  cannot  describe  nor 
account  for  V 

She  paused  a  moment  before  she  answered,  calmly.  "  No  ! — 
Again'  1  ask,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  do  I  mean  t  Do  you  forget  that  we  are  betrothed  ? — 
Do  you  forget,  how  often,  ami  how  recently,  our  vows  of  affection 
and  constancy  have  been  exchanged?" 

"No.  1  do  not  forget;  but  I  must  have  deceived  vou  and  my- 
self  " 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that  you  love  me  no  more  1" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  But,  oh,  Lilian,  is  it  that  your  heart  is  only  closed  to  me?  or 
is  it — oh,  answer  truthfully — is  it.  given  to  another  \ — to  him — to 
him — against  whom  i  warned  you,  whom  1  implored  you  not  to 
receive.  Tell  me,  at  least,  that,  your  love  is  not  gone  to  Mar- 
gnu  e 


'  To  him — love  to  him  !     Oh,  no — no- 


"  "What,  then,  is  your  feeling  toward  him  ?" 

Lilian's  face  grew  visibly  paler — even  in  thai  dim  light.  "  1 
know-  not,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper;  "  but  it  is — partly  awe — 
partly " 

"What  r 

"Abhorrence!"  she  said,  almost  fiercely,  and  rose  to  her  feet, 
with  a  wild,  defying  start. 

"If  that  be  so.'' 1  said  gently,  "  you  would  not  grieve  were 
you  never  again  to  see  him " 

"But  I  shall  see  him  again,"  she  murmured,  in  a  tone  of  wean 
sadness,  and  sank  hack  once  more  into  her  chair. 

"I  think  not,"  said  I,  "and  I  hope  not.  And  now  hear  me, 
and  heed  me,  Lilian.  It  is  enough  for  me,  no  matter  what  your 
feelings  toward  another,  to  hear  from  yourself  that  the  affection 
you  once  professed  for  me  is  gone.  1  release  you  from  your  troth. 
•If  folks  ask  why  we  two  heiieeforth  separate  the  lives  we  had 
agreed  to  join,  you  may  say,  if  you  please,  that  you  could  notgive 
your  hand  to  a  man  who  bad  known  the  taint  of  a  felon's  prison, 
even  on  a  falsi'  charge.  If  that  seems  to  you  an  ungenerous  rea- 
son, we  will  leave  it.  to  your  mother  to  find  a  better.  Farewell  ! — 
For)  our  own  sake  I  can  yet  feel  happiness — happiness  to  hear 
thai  you  do  not  love  the  man  against  whom  I  warn  you  still  more 
solemnly  than  before  !  Will  you  not  give  me  your  hand  in  part- 
ing— and  have  I  not  spoken  your  own  wish  '." 

She  turned  away  her  face,  and   resigned   her  hand   tome  in  si- 
lence.    Silently  1  held  it  in  mine,  and  my  emotions  nearly  sti 
me.     One  symptom  of  regret,  of  reluctance,   on    her  part,  and   1 
should  have  fallen  at  her  feet  and  cried,  ••  Do  not  let   us  break  a 


1S6  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

tie  which  our  vows  should  have  made  indissoluble ;  heed  not  my 
offers — wrung  from  a  tortured  heart.  You  cannot  have  ceased  to 
love  me !"  But  no  such  symptom  of  relenting  showed  itself  in 
her,  and  with  a  groan  I  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

I  was  just  outside  the  garden  door,  when  I  felt  an  arm  thrown 
round  me,  my  cheek  kissed,  and  wetted  with  tears.  Could  it  be 
Lilian  ?  Alas,  no  !  It  was  her  mother's  voice,  that,  between  laugh- 
ing and  crying,  exclaimed  hysterically  :  "  This  is  joy,  to  see  you 
again,  and  on  these  thresholds.  I  have  just  come  from  your  house ; 
I  went  there  on  purpose  to  congratulate  you,  and  to  talk  to  you 
about  Lilian.     But  you  have  seen  her  ?'•' 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  but  this  moment  left  her.  Come  this  way."  I 
drew  Mrs.  Ashleigh  back  into  the  garden,  along  the  old  winding 
walk,  which  the  shrubs  concealed  from  view  of  the  house.  We  sat 
down  on  a  rustic  seat,  where  I  had  often  sat  with  Lilian,  midway 
between  the  house  and  the  Monk's  Well.  I  told  the  mother  what 
had  passed  between  me  and  her  daughter;  I  made  no  complaint 
of  Lilian's  coldness  and  change;  I  did  not  hint  at  its  cause.  "Girls 
of  her  age  will  change,"  said  I  ;  "  and  all  that  now  remains  is  for 
us  two  to  agree  on  such  a  tale  to  our  curious  neighbors,  as  may 
rest  the  whole  blame  on  me.  Man's  name  is  of  robust  fibre  ;  it 
could  not  push  its  way  to  a  place  in  the  world,  if  it  could  not  bear, 
without  sinking,  the  load  idle  tongues  may  lay  on  it.  Not  so, 
Woman's  Name — what  is  but  gossip  against  Man,  is  scandal 
against  Woman." 

"  Do  not  be  rash,  my  dear  Allen,"  said  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  in  great 
distress.  "  I  feel  for  you,  1  understand  ;  in  your  case  I  might  act 
as  you  do.  I  cannot  blame  you.  Lilian  is  changed — changed 
unaccountably.  Yet  sure  I  am  that  the  change  is  only  on  the 
surface,  that  her  heart  is  really  yours,  as  entirely  and  as  faithfully 
as  ever  it  was  ;  and  that  later  when  she  recovers  from  the  strange, 
dreamy  kind  of  torpor  which  appears  to  have  come  over  all  her 
faculties  and  all  her  affections,[she  would  awake  with  a  despair  which 
you  cannot  conjecture,  to  the  knowledge  that  you  had  renounced 
her." 

"I  have  not  renounced  her,"  said  I,  impatiently;  "I  did  but 
restore  her  freedom  of  choice.  But  pass  by  this  now,  and  explain 
to  me  more  fully  the  change  in  your  daughter,  which  I  gather 
from  your  words  is  not  confined  to  me." 

"  I  wished  to  speak  of  it  before  you  saw  her,  and  for  that  reason 
came  to  your  house.     It  was  on  the  morning  in  which  we  left  her 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  V_  187 

alint's  to  return  hither  that  I  first  noticed  something  peculiar  in 
her  look  and  manner.  She  seemed  absorbed  and  absent,  so  much 
so  that.  I  asked  her  several  times  to  tell  me  what  made  her  so 
grave,  but  I  could  only  get  from  her  that  she  had  had  a  confused 
dream  which  she  could  not  recall  distinctly  enough  to  relate,  bul 
that  she  was  sure  it  boded  evil.  During  the  journey  she  became 
gradually  more  herself,  and  began  to  look  forward  with  delight  to 
the  idea  of  seeing  you  again.  Well,  you  came  that  evening.  What 
passed  between  you  and  her  you  know  best.  You  complained 
that  she  slighted  your  request  to  shun  all  acquaintance  with  .Air. 
.Margrave.  1  was  surprised  that,  whether  your  wish  were 
able  or  not,  she  could  have  hesitated  to  comply  with  it.  I  spoke 
to  her  about  it  after  you  had  gone,  and  she  wept  bitterly  at  think- 
ing she  had  displeased  you." 

"Shewepl  !     5Tou  amaze  tue.     Vet  the  next  day  what  a  note 
she  returned  to  mine  !  "  . 

"The  next  day  the  change  in  her  became  very  visible  to  me. — 
told  me,  in  an  excited  manner,  thai  she  was  convinced  she 
OUghi  not  to  marry  you.  Then  came,  the  following  day.  the  news 
iur  committal.  I  heard  of  it,  but  dared  not  break  it  to  her.  I. 
went  to  our  friend,  the  mayor,  to  consult  with  him  what  to  say, 
what  do  ;  and  to  learn  more  distinctly  than  I  had  done  from  ter- 
rified, incoherent  servants,  the  rights  of  so  dreadful  a  story.  When 
1  returned,  1  found,  to  my  amazement,  a  young  stranger  in  the 
drawing-room  ;  ii  was  Mr.  Margrave — Miss  Brabazon  had  brought 
him  at  his  request.  Lilian  was  in  the  room,  too,  and  my  astonish- 
ment was  increased  when  she  said  to  me  with  a  singular  smile, 
vague  but  tranquil ;  '  I  know  all  about  Allen  Fenwick  ;  Mr.  Mar- 
grave lias  told  me  all.  He  is  a  friend  of  Allen's,  lie  says  there 
is  no  cause  for  fear.'  Mr.  Margrave  then  apologized  to  me  for  his 
intrusion  in  a  caressing,  kindly  manner,  as  if  one  of  the  family. — 
lie  said  he  was  so  intimate  with  you  that  he  felt  he  could  best 
break  to  Miss  Ashleigh  an  information  she  might  receive  elsewhere, 
for  that  he  was  the  Only  man  in  the  town  who  treated  the  charge 
with  ridicule.  You.  know  the  wonderful  charm  of  this  young  man's 
manner.  I  cannot  explain  to  you  how  it  was,  but  in  a  Tew  mo- 
ments 1  was  as  much  at  home  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  your 
brother.  To  be  brief,  having  once  couie.be  came  constantly. 
had  moved,  two  days  btfore  you  went  to   Derval  Court,  from  his 

hotel  to  apartments  in  Mr. 's  house,  just  bppdsitel     We  could 

see  him  on  his  balcony  from  our  terrace  ■  he  would  smile  to  us  and 
come  across.  I  did  wrong  in  slighting  your  injunction,  and  suffer- 
ing Lilian  to  do  so.  1  could  not  help  it,  be  was  such  a  comfort  to 
me — to  her,  too — in  our  tribulation.  He  alone  had  no  doleful 
words,  wore  no  long  face  ;  he  alone  \\*is  invariable  cheerful. — 
>  Every  thing,'  he  said,  '  would  come  right  in  a  day  or  tv 

■    \iiil  Lilian  could  not  but  admire  thidyoung  man.  he  I8S0  beau- 
tiful." 


18S  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  Beautiful  1  Well,  perhaps.  But  if  you  have  a  jealous  feeling 
vou  were  never  more  mistaken.  Lilian,  I  am  convinced,  does  more 
than  dislike  him  ;  he  has  inspired  her  with  repugnance,  with*terror. 
And  much  as  I  own  I  lrke  him,  in  his  whd,  joyous,  careless,  harm- 
less way,  do  not  think  I  flatter  you  if  I  say  that  Mr.  Margrave  is 
not  the  man  to  make  any  girl  untrue  to  you — untrue  to  a  lover 
with  infinitely  less  advantages  than  you  may  pretend  to.  He 
would  he  an  universal  favorite,  I  grant;  hut  there  is  a  something 
in  him,  or  a  something  wanting  in  him,  which  makes  liking  and 
admiration  stop  short  of  love.  I  know  not  why  ;  perhaps,  because, 
with  all  his  good  humor,  he  is  so  absorbed  in  himself,  so  intensely 
egotistical — so  light;  were  he  less  clever,  I  should  say  so  frivol- 
ous. He  could  not  make  love,  he  could  not  say  in  the  serious  tone 
of  a  man  in  earnest,  '  I  love  you.'  He  owned  as  much  to  me,  and 
owned,  too,  that  he  knew  not  even  what  love  was.  As  to  myself — 
Mr.  Margrave  appears  rich  ;  no  whisper  against  his  character  or 
his  honor  ever  reached  me.  Yet  were  you  out.  of  the  question, 
and  were  there  no  stain  on  his  birth,  nay,  were  he  as  high  in  rank 
and  wealth  as  he  is  favored  by  Nature  in  personal  advantages,  I 
confess  I  could  never  consent  to  trust  him  with  my  daughter's  fate. 
A  voice  at  my  heart  would  cry,  '  No ! '  It  may  be  an  unreasonable 
prejudice,  but  I. could  not  bear  to  see  him  touch  Lilian's  hand  !  " 

"  Did  she  never,  then — never  sutler  him  even  to  take  her  hand  1" 

"  Never.  Do  not  think  so  meanly  of  her  as  to  suppose  that  she 
could  be  caught  by  a  fair  face,  a  graceful  manner.  Reflect :  just 
before,  she  had  refused,  for  your  sake,  Ashleigh  Somner,  wThom 
Lady  Haughton  said,  'no  girl  in  her  senses  could  refuse;'  and  this 
change  in  Lilian  really  began  before  we  returned  to  L ;  be- 
fore she  had  ever  seen  Mr.  Margrave.  I  am  convinced  it  is  some- 
thing in  the  reach  of  your  skill  as  physician — it  is  on  the  nerves, 
tlie  system.  1  will  give  you  proof  of  what  I  say,  only  do  not  be- 
tray me  to  her. ,  It  was  during  your  imprisonment,  the  night  be- 
fore your  release,  that  I  was  awakened  by  her  coming  to  my  bed- 
side. She  was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  'Oh,  mother, 
mother!.'  she  cried,  'pity  me,  help  me—I  am  so  wretched.' 
'  What  is  the  matter,  darling1? '  '  1  have  been  so  cruel  to  Allen, 
and  I  know  I  shall  be  so  again.  I  cannot  help  it.  Don't  question 
me;  only,  if  we  are  separated,  if  he  cast  me  off,  or  I  reject  him, 
tell  him  some  day — perhaps  when  I  am  in  my  grave — not  to  be- 
lieve appearances  ;  and  that  I,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  never  ceased 
to  love  him  !  " 

"  She  said  that !   »You  are  not  deceiving  me  1  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  how  can  you  think  so  1  " 

"  There  is  hope  still, "'  I  murmured  ;  and  I  bowed  my  head  upon 
my  hands,  hot  tears  forcing  their  way  through  the  clasped  fingers. 

"  One  word  more,"  said  I ;  "  you  Tell  me  that  Lilian  has  a  re- 
pugnance to  this  Margrave,  and  yet  that  she  found  comfort  in  his 
visits — a  comfort  that, could  not  be  wholly  ascribed  to  cheering 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  J  89 

words  he  might  say  about  myself,  since  it  is  all  but  certain  that  I 
was  not,  at  that  time,  uppermost  in  her  mind.  Can  yon  explain 
this  apparent  contradiction  1  " 

"I  cannot,  otherwise  than  by  a  conjecture  which  you  would 
ridicule." 

"  I  can  ridicule  nothing  now.     What  is  your  conjecture  ?" 

"I  know  how  much  you  disbelieve  in  the  stories  one  hears  of 
animal  magnetism  and  electro-biology,  otherwise " 

"You  think  that  Margrave  exercises  some  power  of  that  kind 
over  Lilian  ?     Has  lie  spoken  of  such  a  power  \  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  he  said  that  lie  was  sure  Lilian  possessed  a 
faculty  that  lie  called  by  some  hard  name,  not  clairvoyance,  but  a 
faculty,  which  be  said,  when  I  asked  him  to  explain,  was  akin  to 
prevision — to  second  sight.  Then  he  talked  of  the  Priestesses 
who  had  administered  the  ancienl  oracles.  Lilian,  he  said,  re- 
minded him  of  I  hem,  with  her  deep  eyes  and  mysterious  smile." 

"  And  Lilian  heard  to  him  I     What  said  she  \  " 

"  Nothing  ;   she  seemed  in  fear  while  she  listened." 

"  He  did  not  offer  to  try  any  of  those  arts  practised  by  profes- 
sional mesmerists  and  other  charlatans?  " 

"  I  thought  he  was  about  to  do  so,  hut  I  forestalled  him  ;  say- 
ing 1  never  would  consent  to  any  experiment  of  thai  kind,  either 
on  myself  or  my  daughter." 

"  And  he  replied 1  " 

"  With  his  gay  laugh,  that  I  was  very  foolish;  that  a  person 
possessed  of  such  a  faculty  as  he  attributed  to  Lilian,  would,  if  the 
faculty  were  developed,  he  an  invaluable  adviser.  He  would 
have  said  more,  but,  I  begged  him  to  desist,  Still  I  fancy  a! 
times — do  not  be  angry — that  he  does  somehow  or  other  bewitch 
her,  unconsciously  to  herself:  for  she  always  knows  when  he  is  coin- 
ing. Indeed}  I  am  not  sure  that  he  does  not  bewitch  myself,  for  I 
by  no  means  justify  my  conduct  in  admitting  him  to  an  intimacy 
so  familiar,  and  in  spite  of  your  wish  ;  1  have  reproached  myself,  re- 
solved to  shut  my  door  on  him,  or  to  show  by  my  manner  that  hi^ 
visits  were  unwelcome ;  yet  when  Lilian  has  said,  in  the  drowsy 
lethargic  tone  which  has  come  into  her  voice  (her  voice  naturally 
eajrnest  and  impressive,  though  always  low),  'Mother,  he  will  be 
here  in  two  minutes — 1  wish  to  leave  the  room,  and  cannot' — I, 
too,  have  felt  as  if  something  constrained  me  against  my  will  ;  as 
if,  in  short,  I  were  under  that  influence  which  Mr.  Vigors  — 
whom  1  will  never  forgive  for  his  conduct  to  you — would  ascribe 
to  mesmerism.     But  will  you  not  come  in  and  see  Lilian  again  ?  " 

"No,  not  to-night;  but  watch  and  heed  her,  and  if  you  see 
aughl  to  make  you  honestly  believe  that  she  regrets  the  rupture 
of  the  eld  tie  from  whlCfi   1   have  released  her — why   you   know, 

Mrs.  Ashleigh,  that — that "     My   voice  failed — 1  wrung  the 

good  woman's  hand,  and  went  my  way. 

I  had  always  till  then  considered  Mrs.  Ashleigh — if  not  as 


1 90  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

Mrs.  Poyntz  described  her — "  common-place  weak  " — still  of  an 
intelligence  somewhat  below  mediocrity.  I  now  regarded  her 
with  respect  as  well  as  grateful  tenderness  ;  her  plain  sense  bad 
divined  what  all  my  boasted  knowledge  had  failed  to  detect  in  my 
earlier  intimacy  with  Margrave — namely,  that  in  him  there  was  a 
something  present,  or  a  something  wanting,  which  forbade  love 
and  excited  fear.  Young,  beautiful,  wealthy,  seemingly  blameless 
in  life  as  he  was,  she  would  not  have  given  her  daughter's  hand 
to  him. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

The  next  day  my  house  was  tilled  with  visitors.  I  had  no 
notion  1  had  so  many  friends.  Mr.  Vigors  wrote  me  a  generous 
and  handsome  letter,  owning  his  prejudices  against  me  on  account 
of  his  sympathy  with  poor  Dr.  Lloyd,  and  begging  my  pardon  for 
what  lie  now  felt  to  have  been  harshness,  if  not  distorted  justice. 
But  what  most  moved  me,  was  the  entrance  of  Stratum,  who 
rushed  up  to  me  with  the  heartiness  of  old  college  days.  "  Oh, 
my  dear  Allen,  can  you  ever  forgive  me ;  that  I  should  have  dis- 
believed your  word — should  have  suspected  you  of  abstracting 
my  poor  cousin's  memoir?  " 

"  Is  it  found,  then  1  " 

il  Oh,  yes  ;  you  must  thank  Margrave.  He,  cl-ever  fellow,  you 
know,  came  to  me  on  a  visit  yesterday.  He  put  me  at  once  on  the 
right  scent.  Only  guess  ;  but  you  never  can  !  It  was  that 
wretched  old  housekeeper  who  purloined  the  manuscript.  You  re- 
member she  came  into  the  room  while  you  were  looking  at  the 
memoir.  She  heard  us  talk  about  it;  her  curiosity  was  roused; 
she  longed  to  know  the  history  of  her  old  master,  under  his  own 
hand ;  she  could  not  sleep  ;  she  heard  me  go  up  to  bed  ;  she 
thought  you  might  leave  the  book  on  the  table  when  you,  too,  went 
to  rest.  She  stole  down  stairs,  peeped  through  the  keyhole  of  the 
lobby,  saw  you  asleep,  the  book  lying  before  you,  entered,  took 
away  the  book  softly,  meant  to  glance  at  its  contents  and  to  return 
it.  You  were  sleeping  so  soundly  she  thought  you  would  not  wake 
for  an  hour  ;  she  carried  it  into  the  library,  leaving  the  door  open, 
and  there  began  to  pore  over  it;  she  stumbled  first  on  one  of  the 
passages  in  Latin  ;  she  hoped  to  find  some  part  in  plain  English, 
turned  over  the  leaves,  putting  her  candle  close  to  them,  for  the  old 
woman's  eyes  were  dim,  when  she  heard  you  make  some  sound  in 
your  sleep.  Alarmed,  she  looked  round  ;  you  were  moving  uneasily 
in  your  seat,  and  muttering  to  yourself.  From  watching  you  she 
was  soon  diverted    by  the  consequence  of  her  own  confounded 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  191 

curiosity  and  folly.  In  moving,  she  had  unconsciously  brought  the 
poor  manuscript  close  to  the  candle  ;  the  leaves  c&aght  the  flame  ; 
her  own  cap  and  hand  burning  first;  made  her  aware  (if  the  mischief 
done.  She  threw  down  the  hook ;  her  sleeve  was  in  flames ; 
she  had  first  to  tear  off  the  sleeve,  which  was,  luckily  for  her,  not 
sewn  to  her  dress.  By  the  time  she  recovered  presence  of  mind  to 
attend  to  the  book  half  its  leaves  were  reduced  to  tinder.  She  did 
not  dare  then  to  replace  what  was  left  of  the  manuscript  on  your 
table;  returned,  with  it,  to  her  room,  lad  it,  and  resolved  to  keep 
her  own  secret.  I  should  never  have  guessed  if  ;  I  had  never  even 
spoke  io  her  on  the  occurrence  ;  hut  when  I  talked  over  the  disap  - 
peannice  of  the  hook  to  Margrave  last  night,  and  expressed  my 
disbelief  of  your  story,  he  said,  in  his  merry  way  :  '  Hut  do  you 
think  Fenwiek  the  only  person  curious  about  your  cousin's  odd  ways 
and  strange  history  I  Why-,  every  servant  in  the  household  would 
have  been  equally  curious.  You  have  examined  your  servants,  of 
course  V  '  No,  1  never  thought  of  it.'  '  Examine  I  hem  now,  then. 
Examine  especially  that  old  housekeeper.  1  observe  a  great 
change  in  her  manner  since  1  came  here,  weeks  ago,  to  look  over 
the  house.  She  has  something  on  her  mind — I  see  it  in  her  eyes.' 
Then  it  occurred  to  me,  loo,  that  the  woman's  manner  had  altered, 
and  that  she  seemed  always  in  a  tremble  and  iidgel.  i  went  at  once 
to  her  room,  and  charged  her  with  stealing  the  hook.  She  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  told  the  whole  story  as  1  have  told  it  tit  you.  and  as  1 
shall  Take  care  to  tell  it  to  all  to  whom  I  have  so  foolishly  blabbed 
my  yet  more  foolish  suspicion  of  yourself.  But  can  you  forgive 
me,  old  friend  !" 

"  Heartily,  heartily  !  And  the  hook  is  burned  !" 
"  See  ;"  and  lie  produced  the  mutilated  manuscript.  Strange, 
the  part  burned — reduced,  indeed,  to  tinder — was  the  concluding 
part  that  related  to  Haroun — to  Grayle ;  no  vestige  of  thai  pari 
left;  the  earlier  portions  were  scorched  and  mutilated,  hut,  in 
some  places,  still  decipherable ;  hut  as  my  eye  hastily  ran  over 
these  places.  1  saw  only  mangled  sentences  of  the  experimental 
problems  which  the  writer  had  so  minutely  elaborated. 

"  Will  you   keep  the  manuscript  as  it  is,  and  as  long  as  you 
"  said  Strahan. 

o,  uo  ;  1  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it.  Consult  some 
other  man  of  science.  And  so  this  is  the  old  woman's  whole  sioiy  '. 
No  accomplice — none  !     No  one  else  shared  her  curiosity  and  her 

fa.  Oddly  enough,  though,  she  made  much  the  same  excuse 
for  her  pitiful  folly  that  the  madman  made  for  his  terrible  crime  j 
she  said  '  the  Devi)  put  it  into  her  head.'  <  >f  course  he  did,  as  he 
puts  everything  wrong  into  any  one's  head.  That  does  not  mend 
the  matter." 
"How!  did  she,  too,  say  she  saw  a  Shadow  and  heard  a  Voice  1" 
"  No;  not  such  a  liar  as  that,  and  not  mad  enough  for  such  a 


192  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

lie.  But  she  said  that  when  she  was  in  bed,  thinking  over  the 
book,  something  irresistible  urged  her  to  get  up  and  go  down  into 
the  study';  swore  she  felt  something*lead  her  by  the  hand ;  swore, 
too,  that  when  she  first  discovered  the  manuscript  was  not  in  Eng- 
lish, something  whispered  in  her  ear  to  turn  over  the  leaves  and  ap- 
proach them  to  the  candle.  But  I  had  no  patience  to  listen  to  all 
this  rubbish.  I  sent  her  out  of  the  house,  bag  and  baggage. — 
But,  alas !  is  this  to  be  the  end  of  all  my  wise  cousin's  grand  dis- 
coveries ?" 

True,  of  labors  that  aspired  to  briug  into  the  chart  of  science 
new  worlds,  of  which  even  the  traditionary  rumor  was  but  a  voice 
from  the  land  of  fable — nought  left  but  broken  vestiges  of  a  daring 
footstep  !  •  The  hope  of  a  name  imperishable  amidst  the  loftiest 
hierarchy  of  Nature's  secret  temple,  with  all  the  pomp  of  recorded 
experiment,  that  applied  to  the  mysteries  of  Egypt  and  Chaldsea 
the  inductions  of  Bacon,  the  tests  of  Liebig — was  there  nothing 
left  of  this  but  what,  here  and  there,  some  puzzled  student  might 
extract,  garbled,  mutilated,  perhaps  unintelligible,  from  shreds  of 
sentences,  wrecks  of  problems  I  0,  mind  of  man,  can  the  works, 
on  which  thou  wouldst  found  immortality  below,  be  annulled  into 
smoke  and  tinder  by  an  inch  of  caudle  in  the  hand  of  an  old  wo- 
man ! 

When  Strahan  left  me,  I  went  out,  but  not  yet  to  visit  patients. 
I  stole  through  by-paths  into  the  fields  ;  I  needed  solitude  to  bring 
my  thoughts  into  shape  and  order.  What  was  delusion,  and  what 
not  ? — was  I  right  or  the  public  1  Was  Margrave  really  the  most 
innocent  and  serviceable  of  human  beings,  kindly,  affectionate,  em- 
ploying a  wonderful  acuteness  of  benignant  ends?  Was  I,  in 
truth,  indented  to  him  for  the  greatest  boon  one  man  can  bestow 
on  another  1  For  life  rescued,  for  fair  name  justified  1  Or  had  he, 
by  some  demoniac  sorcery,  guided  the  hand  of  the  murderer  against 
the  life  of  a  person  who  alone  could  imperil  his  own  ]  had  he,  by 
the  same  dark  spells,  urged  the  woman  to  the  act  that  had  destroyed 
the  only  record  of  his  monstrous  being — the  only  evidence  that  1 
was  not  the  sport  of  an  illusion  in  the  horror  with  which  he  inspired 
me? 

But  if  the  latter  supposition  could  be  admissible,  did  he  use  his 
agents  only  to  betray  them  afterwards  to  exposure,  and  that,  with- 
out any  possible  clue  to  his  own  detection  as  the  instigator  1  Then, 
there  came  over  me  confused  recollections  of  tales  of  mediaeval 
witchcraft  which  I  had  read  in  boyhood.  Were  there  not  on  judi- 
cial record  attestation  and  evidence  solemn  and  circumstantial,  of 
powers  analagous  to  those  now  exercised  by*  Margrave  ?  Of  sor- 
cerers instigating  to  sin  through  influences  ascribed  to  Demons — 
making  their  apparitions  glide  through  guarded  walls,  their  voices 
heard  from  afar  in  the  solitude  of  dungeons  or  monastic  cells  1  sub- 
jugating victims  to  their  will,  by  means  which  no  vigilance  could 
have  detected,  if  the  victims  themselves  had  not  confessed  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  193 

witchcraft  that  had  ensnared — courting  a  sure  and  infamous  death 
in  that  confession — preferring  such  death  to  a  life  so  haunted  I — 
Were  stories  so  gravely  set  forth  in  the  pomp  of  judicial  evidence, 
and  in  the  history  of  times  comparatively  recent,  indeed,  to  be 
massed — pell-mell  together,  as  a  moles  indigesta  of  senseless  su- 
perstition— all  the  witnesses  to  be  deemed  liars?  all  the  victims 
and  tools  of  the  sorcerers,  lunatics  ?  all  the  examiners  or  jud 
with  their  solemn  gradations — lay  and  clerical — from  Commissions 
of  Enquiry  to  Courts  Df  Appeal — to  be  dispised  for  credulity, 
loathed  for  cruelty  ;  or,  amidst  records  so  numerous,  so  imposingly 
attested — were  there  the  fragments  of  a  terrible  truth  ]  Ami  had 
our  ancestors  been  so  unwise  in  those  laws  we  now  deem  so 
age,  by  which  the  world  was  rid  of  scourges  more  awful  and  more 
potent  than  the  felon  with  his  candid  dagger  ?  Fell  instigators  of 
the  evil  in  men's  secret  hearts — shaping  into  action  the  vague,  half- 
formed  desire,  and  guiding  with  agencies,  impalpable,  unseen,  their 
spell-bound  instruments  of  calamity  and  death. 

Such  were  the  gloomy  questions  that  1 — by  repute,  the  sternest 
advoi  imraon   sense  against  fantastic  errors; — by   profes- 

sion, the  searcher  into  flesh  and  blood,  and  tissue,  and  nerve,  and 
sinew,  for  the  causes  of  all  that  disease  the  mechanism  of  the  uni- 
versal human  frame; — I,  self-boasting  physician,  sceptic,  philoso- 
pher, materialist — revolved,  not  amidst  gloomy  pines,  under  grim 
winter  skies,  but  as  I  paced  slow  through  laughing  meadows,  and 
by  the  banks  of  merry  streams,  in  the  ripeness  of  the  golden 
August;  the  bum  of  insects  in  the  fragrant  grass,  the  flutter  of 
birds  amid  the  delicate  green  of  boughs  chequered  by  playful  sun- 
beams and  gentle  shadows,  and  ever  in  sight  of  the  resorts  of  busy 
work-day  man.  AValls,  roof-tops,  church-spires  rising  high.  There, 
white  ami  modern,  the  handwriting  of  our  race,  in  this  practical 
nineteenth  century,  on  its  square  plain  masonry  and  Doric  shafts, 
the  Town-Hall,  central  in  the  animated  market-place.  Audi — 1 — 
prying  into  In  ste'd  corners  and  dust-holes  of  memory  for 

what  my  reason  had  flung  there  as  worthless  rubbish  ;  reviving  the 
.i  of  French  law,  in  thsproces  verbal,  against  a  GilledeRetz, 
or  an   Urbain  Grandjer,  and   sifting  the  equity  of  sentences  <>n 
witchcraft ! 

Bursting  the  links  of  this  ghastly  soliloquy  with  a  laugh  at  my 
own  lolly,  I  struck  into  a  narrow  path  that  led  back  toward  the 
by  a  quiet  and  rural  suburb;  the  path  wound  on  through  a 
wide  and  solitary  churchyard,  at  the  base  of  the  Abbey  Hill. — 
Many  oi'  the  former  dwellers  on  that  eminence  now  slept  in  the 
lowly  burial-ground  at  its  toot.  Ami  the  place,  mournfully  deco- 
rated with  the  tombs  which  still  jealously  mark  distinctions  of 
rank  amidst  the  levelling  democracy  of  the  grave  was  kept  trim 
with  the  care  which  comes  half  from  piety  and  half  from  pride. 

I  seated  myself  on   a  bench,  placed  between  the  clipped  yew 
trees   thai    bordered   the    path    from  the    entrance    to  tlie  church 
13 


194  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

porch  ;  deeming  vaguely  that  my  own  perplexing  thoughts  might 
imbibe  a  quiet  from  the  quiet  of  the  place. 

"And  oh."  I  murmured  to  myself,  "oh,  that  I  had  one  bosom 
friend  to  whom  I  might  freely  confide  all  these  torturing  riddles 
which  I  cannot  solve — one  who  could  read  1113'  heart,  assured  of 
its  truthfulness,  and  wise  enough  to  enlighten  its  troubles." 

And  as  I  so  murmured,  my  eye  fell  upon  the  form  of  a  kneeling 
child — at  the  furtherest  end  of  the  burial  ground,  beside  a  grave 
with  its  new  headstone  gleaming  white  amidst  the  older  moss- 
grown  toombs,  a  female  child,  her  head  bowed,  her  hands  clasped. 
I  could  see  but  the  outline  of  her  small  form  in  its  sable  dress — 
an  infant  beside  the  dead. 

My  eye  and  my  thoughts  were  turned  from  that  silent,  figure, 
too  absorbed  in  my  own  restless  tumult  of  doubt  and  dread,  for 
sympathy  with  the  grief  or  the  consolation  of  a  kneeling  child. — 
And  yet  I  should  have  remembered  that  tomb  !  Again  I  mur- 
mured with  a  fierce  impatience,  "  Oh,  for  a  bosom  friend  in  whom, 
I  could  confide !  " 

I  heard  steps  on  the  walks  under  the  yews.  And  an  old  man 
came  in  sight,  slightly  bent,  with  long  grey  hair,  but  still  with 
enough  vigor  for  years  to  come — in  his  tread,  firm,  though  slow — 
in  the  unshrunken  muscles  of  his  limbs  and  the  steady  light  of  his 
clear  blue  eye.  I  started.  Was  it  possible?  That  countenance, 
marked,  indeed,  with  the  lines  of  laborious  thought,  but  sweet  in 
the  mildness  of  humanity,  and  serene  in  the  peace  of  conscience  ! 
1  could  not  be  mistaken.  Julius  Faber  was  before  me.  The  pro- 
found pathologist,  to  whom  my  own  proud  self-esteem  acknowledged 
inferiority,  without  humiliation  ;  the  generous  benefactor  to  whom 
I  owed  my  own  smooth  entrance  into  the  arduous  road  of  fame  and 
and  fortune.  I  had  longed  for  a  friend,  a  confidant;  what  I  sought 
stood  suddenly  at  mv  side. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


Explanation,  on  his  part,  was  short  and  simple.  The  nephew 
whom  he  designed  as  the  heir  to  his  wealth,  had  largely  outstripped 
the  liberal  allowance  made  to  him — had  incurred  heavy  debts ; 
and,  in  order  to  extricate  himself  from  the  debts,  had  plunged  into 
ruinous  speculations.  Faber  had  come  back  to  England  to  save 
his  heir  from  prison  or  outlawry,  at  the  expense  of  more  than 
three-fourths  of  the  destined  inheritance.  To  add  to  all,  the 
young  man  had  married  a  young  lady  without  fortune ;  the  uncle 
only  heard  of  this  marriage  on  arriving  in  England.  The  spend- 
thrift was  hiding  from  his  creditors  in  the  house  of  his  father-in- 
law,  in  one  of  the  western  counties.     Faber  there  sought  him, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  195 

and,  on  becoming  acquainted  with  his  wife,  gre$  reconciled  to  the 
marriage,  and  formed  hopes  of  his  nephew's  future  redemptiori. — 
Hi'  spoke,  indeed,  of  the  young  wife  with  great  affection.  She 
was  good  and  sensible  ;  willing  and  anxious  to  encounter  any  pn 

ration  by  which  her  husband  might  retrieve  (lie  effects  of  his  folly. 
"  So,"  said  ITaber  "on  consultation  with  this  excellent  creaturi — 
for  my  poor  nephew  is  so  broken  down  by  repentance,  that  others 

must  think  fur  him  how  to  exalt  repentance  into  reform — my  plans 
were  determined.      I   shall  remove  my  prodigal    from    all  scenes  of 

temptation,  lie  has  youth,  strength,  plenty  of  energy,  hitherto 
misdirected.  I  shall  take  him  from  the  Old  World  into  the  Kcw. 
1  have  decided  on  Australia.  The  fortune  still  left  me,  small 
here* will  he  ample  capital  there.  It  is  not  endugh  to  maintain  us 
separately,  so  we  must-  all  live  together.  Besides,  I  feel  that, 
though  I  have  neither  the  strength  nor  the  experience  which  could 
Ivsi  serve  a  young  settler  on  a  strange  soil,  still,  under  my  eye, 
my  poor  hoy  will  he  at  once  more  prudent  and  more  persevering. 
We  sail  next  week." 

Fahcr  spoke  so  cheerfully,  that  I  knew  not  how  to  express  com- 
passion ;  yet.  .it  his  age,  after  a  career  of  such  prolonged  and  dis- 
tinguished labor,  to  resign  the  ease  and  comfort  of  the  civilized 
stale  for  the  hardship  and  rudeness  of  an  infant  colony,  seemed 
tome  a  dreary  prospect;  and,  as  delicately,  as  tenderly  as  1 
could  to  one  whom  I  loved  and  honored  as  a  father,  I  placed  at 
his  disposal  the  fortune  which,  in  great  part,  I  owed  to  him — 
pressing  him  at  least  to  take  from  it  enough  to  secure  to  himself. 
in  his  own  country,  a  home  suited  to  his  years  and  worthy  of  his 
station.  lie  rejected  all  my  oilers,  however  earnestly  urged  on 
him,  with  his  usual  modest  and  gentle  dignity  ;  and  assuring  me 
thai  he  looked  forward  with  great  interest  to  a  residence  in  lauds 
new  to  bis  experience,  and  affording  ample  scope  for  the  hardy  en- 
joyments which  had  always  most  allured  his  tastes,  he  hastened 
to  change  the   suhjeet. 

"  And  who,  think  you,  is  the  admirable  helpmate  my  scapegrace 

has  had  the  saving  good  luck  to  find  .'  A  daughter  vi'  the  worthy 
man  who  undertook  the  care  of  poor  Dr.  Lloyd's  orphans — the 
orphans  who  owed  so  much  to  your  generous  exertions  to  secure 
a  provision  for  them — and  that  child,  now  just  risen  from  her  fa- 
ther's grave,  is  my  pet  companion,  my  darling  ewe-lamh — Dr. 
Lloyd's  daughter.  Amy." 

Here  the  child  joined  us.  quickening  her  pace  a-  ■   nized 

the  old  man.  and  nestling  to  his  side  as  she  glanced  wistfully  to- 
wards myself.  A  winning,  candid,  loveable  child's  face,  somewhat 
melancholy,  somewhat  more  thoughtful  than  is  common  to  the 
of  childhood,  hut  calm,  intelligent,  ami  ineffably  mild.  Pres- 
ently she  stole  from  the  old  man  and  put  her  hand  in  mine  : 

•■  Are  you  not  the  kind  gentleman  who  came  to  see  him  that 
night  when    he   passed   away    from    us,  and   who,  they  all   say  at 


196  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

home,  was  so  good  to  my  brothers  and  me?     Yes,  I  recollect  you 
now."     And  sbe  put  her  pure  face  to  mine,  wooing  me  to  kiss  it, 

"  I  kind  !  I  good  !  I — I  !  Alas  !  she  little  knew,  little  guess- 
ed, the  wrathful  imprecation  her  father  had  bequeathed  to  me  that 
fatal  night ! 

I  did  not  dare  to  kiss  Dr.  Lloyd's  orphan  daughter,  but  my 
tears  fell  over  her  hand.  She  took  them  as  signs  of  pity,  and,  in 
her  infant  thankfulness,  silently  kissed  me. 

"  Oh,  my  friend  !  "  I  murmured  to  Faber,  "  I  have  much 
that  I  long  to  say  to  you — alone — alone — come  to  my  house  with 
me,  be  at  least  my  guest  as  long  as  you  stay  in  this  town." 

"  Willingly,"  said  Faber,  looking  at  me  more  intently  than  he 
had  done  before,  and,  with  the  true  eye  of  the  practised  Hauler, 
at  once  soft  and  penetrating. 

He  rose,  took  my  arm,  and  whispering  a  word  in  the  ear  of  the 
little  girl,  she  went  on  before  us,  turning  her  head,  as  she  gained 
the  gate,  for  another  look  at  her  father's  grave.  As  we  walked  to 
my  house,  Julius  Faber  spoke  to  me  much  of  this  child.  Her 
brothers  were  all  at  school ;  she  was  greatly  attached  to  his  ne- 
phew's wife  ;  she  had  become  yet  more  attached  to  Faber  himself, 
though  on  so  short  an  acquaintance  ;  it  had  been  settled  that  she 
was  to  accompany  the  emigrants  to  Australia. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  the  sum,  that  some  munificent,  but  un- 
known friend  of  her  father  has  settled  on  her,  will  provide  her  no 
mean  dower  for  a  colonist's  wife,  when  the  time  comes  for  her  to 
bring  a  blessing  to  some  other  hearth  than  ours."     He  went  onto 

say  that  §he  had  wished  to  accompany  him  to  L ,  in  order  to 

visit  her  father's  grave  before  crossing  the  wide  seas  ;  "  and  she 
has  taken  such  fond  care  of  me  all  the.  way,  that  you  might  fancy 
I  were  the  child  of  the  two.  I  come  back  to  this  town,  partly  to 
dispose  of  a  few  poor  houses  in  it  which  still  belong  to  me,  princi- 
pally to  bid  you  farewell  before  quitting  the  Old  World,  no  doubt 
forever.  So,  on  arriving  to-day,  I  left  Amy  by  herself  in  the 
churchyard  while  I  went  to  your  house,  but  you  were  from  home. 
Aud  now  I  must  congratulate  you  on  the  reputation  you  have  so 
rapidly  acquired,  which  has  even  surpassed  my  predictions." 

"You  are  aware,"  said  I,  falteringly,  "of  the  extraordinary 
charge  from  which  that  part  of  my  reputation  dearest  to  all  men 
has  just  emerged  ?  " 

He  had  but  seen  a  short  account  in  a  weekly  journal,  written 
after  my  release.     He  asked  details,  which  I  postponed. 

Reaching  my  home,  I  busied  myself  to  provide  for  the  comfort 
of  my  two  unexpected  guests  ;  strove  to  rally  myself — to  be 
cheerful.  Not  till  night,  when  Julius  Faber  and  I  were  alone  to- 
gether, did  I  touch  on  what  was  weighing  at  my  heart.  Then, 
drawing  to  his  side,  I  told  him  all ; — all  of  which  the  substance 
is  herein  written,  from  the  death  scene  in  Dr.  Lloyd's  chamber  to 
the  hour  in  which  I  had  seen  Dr.  Lloyd's  child  at  her  father's 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  107 

grave.  Some  of  the  incidents  and  conversations  which  had  most 
impressed  me,  I  had  already  committed  to  writing,  in  the  fear  that, 
otherwise,  my  fancy  might  forge  for  its  own  thraldom  the  links  of 
reminiscence  which  my  memory  might  let  fall  from  its  chain. — 
Faber  listened  with  a  silence  only  interrupted  by  short  pertinent 
questions  ;  and  when  I  had  done,  he  remained  thoughtful  for  some 
moments  ;  then  the  great  physician  replied  thus  : 

"  I  take  for  granted  your  conviction  of  the  reality  of  all  you  tell 
me,  even  of  the  Luminous  Shadow,  the  hodiless  Voice;  hut.  he- 
fore  admitting  the  reality  itself,  we  must  abide  by  the  old  maxim, 
not  to  accept  as  cause  to  effect  those  agencies  which  belong  to  the 
marvelous,  when  causes  less  improbable  for  the  effect  can  be  ra- 
tionally conjectured.  In  this  case  are  there  not  such  causes'? — 
Certainly  there  are " 

"  There  are  !  " 

"Listen  ;  you  are  one  of  those  men  who  attempt  to  stifle  their 
own  imagination.  But  in  all  completed  intellect,  imagination  ex- 
ists, and  will  force  its  way  ;  deny  it  healthful  vents,  and  it  may 
stray  into  morbid  channels.  The  death-room  of  Dr.  Lloyd  deeply 
impressed  your  heart,  far  more  than  your  pride  would  own.  This 
is  clear,  from  the  pains  you  took  to  exonerate  your  conscience,  in 
your  generosity  to  the  orphans.  As  the  heart  was  moved,  so  was 
the  imagination  stirred;  and,  unaware  to  yourseff,  prepared  for 
much  that  subsequently  appealed  to  it.  Your  sudden  love,  con- 
ceived in  the  very  grounds  of  the  house  so  associated  with  recol- 
lections in  themselves  strange  and  romantic;  the  peculiar  temper- 
ament and  nature  of  the  girl  to  whom  your  love  was  attracted; 
her  own  visionary  beliefs,  and  the  keen  anxiety  which  infused  into 
your  love  a  deeper  pOetry  of  sentiment — all  insensibly  tended  tit 
induce  the  imagination  to  dwell  on  the  Wonderful;  and,  in  over- 
sirivingto  reconcile  each  rarer  phenomenon  to  the  most,  positive 
laws  of  Nature,  your  very  intellect  could  discover  no  solution  but 
in  the  Preternatural* 

"  You  visit  a  man  who  tells  you  lie  has  seen  Sir  Philip  DervaTs 
i  tlia.!  Very  evening,  you  hear  a  strange  story,  in  which 
Sir  Philip's  name  is  mixed  up  with  a  tale  of  murder,  implicating 
two  mysterious  pretenders  to  magio — Louis  Graylc,  and  the  Sage 
leppo.  The  tale  so  interests  your  fancy  that  even  the  glaring 
•  ssihility  of  a  not  unimportant  part  of  it,  escapes  your  notice — 
namely,  the  account  of  a  criminal  trial  (in  which  the  circumstantial 
evidence  was  more  easily  attainable  than  in  all  the  rest  of  the  nar- 
rative), but  which  could  not  legally  have  taken  place  as  told.  Thus 
it  is  whenever  the  mind  begins,  unconsciously,  to  admit  the  shadow 
of  the  Supernatural  :  the  Ohvious  is  lost  to  the  eye  that  plunges 
into  the  Ohscure.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  \  on 
bee e  acquainted  with  a  young  stranger,  whose  traits  of  charac- 
ter interest  and  perplex,  attract  yel  revolt  you.  All  this  time  you 
jed  in  a  physiological  work  that  severely  tasks  the  brain. 


198  A    STRAX'GE    STORY. 

and  in  which  you  examine  the  intricate  question  of  soul  distinct 
from  mind. 

"  Ami,  here,  I  can  conceive  a  cause  deep-hid  amongst  what  me- 
taphysicians would  call  latent  associations,  for  a  train  of  thought 
which  disposed  you  to  accept  the  fantastic  impressions  afterwards 
made  on  you  hy  the  scene  in  the  Museum  and  the  visionary  talk  of 
Sir  Philip  Derval.  Doubtless,  when  at  college  you  first  studied 
metaphysical  speculation,  you  would  have  glanced  over  Beattie's 
Essay  on  Truth  as  one  of  the  works  written  in  opposition  to  your 
favorite,  David  Hume." 

"Yes,  I  read  the  book,  but  I  have  long  since  forgotten  all  its 
arguments." 

"Well,  in  that  essay,  Beattie*  cites  the  extraordinary  instance 
of  Simon  Browne,  a  learned  and  pious  clergyman,  who  seriously 
disbelieved  the  existence  of  his  own  soul ;  and  imagined  that,  by 
interposition  of  Divine  power,  his  soul  was  annulled,  and  nothing 
left  but  a  principle  of  animal  life,  which  he  held  in  common  with' 
the  brutes  !  When  years  ago,  a  thoughtful  imaginative  student, 
you  came  on  that  story,  probably  enough  you  would  have  paused, 
revolved  in  your  own  mind  and  fancy  what  kind  of  a  creature  a 
man  might,  be,  if,  retaining  human  life  and  merely  human  under- 
standing, he  was  deprived  of  the  powers  and  properties  which 
seasoners  have  ascribed  to  the  existence  of  soul.  Something  in 
this  young  man,  unconsciously  to  yourself,  revives  that  forgotten 
train  of  meditative  ideas.  His  dread  of  death  as  the  final  cessation 
of  being,  his  brute-like  want  of  sympathy  with  his  kind,  his  inca- 
pacity to  comprehend  the  motives  which  carry  man  on  to  scheme 
and  to  build  for  a  future  that  extends  beyond  his  grave,  all  start 
up  before  you  at  the  very  moment  your  reason  is  overtasked,  your 
imagination  fevered,  in  seeking  the  solution  of  problems  which,  to  a 
philosophy  based  upon  your  system,  must  always  remain  insoluble. 
The  young  man's  conversation  not  only  thus  excites  your  fancies, 
it* disturbs  your  affections.  He  speaks  not  only  of  drugs  that  renew 
youth,  but  of  charms  that  secure  love.  You  tremble  for  your  Lilian 
while  you  hear  him  !  And  the  brain  thus  tasked,  the  imagination 
thus  inflamed,  the  heart  thus  agitated,  you  are  presented  to  Sir 
Philip  Derval,  whose  ghost  your  patient  had  supposed  he  saw 
weeks  ago. 

"  This  person,  a  seeker  after  an  occult  philosophy,  which  had 
possibly  acquainted  him  with  some  secrets  in  nature  beyond  the 
pale  of  our  conventional  experience,  though,  when  analyzed,  they 
might  prove  to  be  quite  reconcilable  with  sober  science,  startles 
you  with  an  undefined  mysterious  charge  against  the  young  man 
who  had  previously  seemed  to  you  different  from  ordinary  mortals. 
In  a  room  stored  with  the  dead  things  of  the  brute  soulless  world, 

*  Beattie's  Essay  on  Truth,  part  i.  c.  ii.  3.  The  story  of  Simon  Browne 
is  to  be  found  in  The  Adventurer. 


A    STRANUE    STORY.  199 

your  brain  becomes  intoxicated  with  the  fumes  of  some  vapor 
which  produces  effects  not  uncommon  in  the  superstitious  practices 
of  the  East;  your  brain  thus  excited,  brings  distinctly  before  you 
the  vague  impressions  ii  had  before  received".  Margrave  becomes 
identified  with  the  Louis  Grayle  of  whom  you  had  pfrevionsly 
heard  an  obscure  and  legendary  tale,  and  all  the  anomalies  in  his 
character  are  explained  by  his  being  that  which  you  had  contend- 
ed, in  your  physiological  work;  it  was  quite  possible  for  man  to 
be — namely,  mind  and  body  without  soul  !  You  were  startled  by 
the  monster  which  man  would  be  were  your  own  theory  possible; 
and  in  order  to  reconcile  the  contradictions  in  this  very  monster, 
you  account  for  knowledge  and  for  powers  that  mind,  without  s  tul, 
could  not  have  attained,  by  ascribing  to  this  prodigy  broken  memo- 
ries of  a  former  existence,  demon  attributes  from  former  proficiency 
in  evil- magic.  My  friend,  there  is  nothing  here  which  your  own 
study  of  morbid  idiosyncrasies  should  not  suffice  to  solve." 

"80  then."  said  I,  "you  would  reduce  all  that  have  affected  my 
senses  as  realities  into  the  deceit  of  illusions  !  But,"  1  added,  in  a 
whisper,  terrified  by  my  own  question,  "do  not  physiologists  agree 
in  tins  :  namely,  that  (though  illusory  phantasms  may  haunt  the 
sane  as  well  as  the  insane,  the  sane  know  that  they  are  only  illu- 
sions, and  the  insane  do  not?" 

•'  Such  a  distinction,"  answered  Faber,  "is  far  too  arbitrary  and 
rigid  for  more  than  a  very  general  and  qualified  acceptance. 
Midler,  indeed,  who  is,  perhaps,  the  highest  authority  on  such  a 
subject,  says,  with  prudent  reserve,  « When  a* person  who  is  not 
insane  sees  spectre?  and  believes  them  to  be  real,  his  intellect  must 
be  imperfectly  exercised.'*  He  would,  indeed,  be  a  bold  physician 
who  maintained  that  every  man  who  believed  he  had  really  seen  a 
ghosl  was  of  unsound  mind.  In  Dr.  Abercrombie's  interesting 
account  of  spectral  illusions,  he  tells  us  of  a  servant rgirl  who  be- 
lieved she  saw,  at  the  font  of  her  bed,  the  apparition  of  Curran,  in 
a  sailor's  jacket  and  an  immense  pair  of  whiskers. f  No  doubt  the 
spectre  was  an  illusion,  and  Dr.  Almrcrombie  very  ingeniouslj 
gests  the  association  of  ideas  by  which  the  apparition  was  conjured 
ith  the  grotesque  adjuncts  of  the  jacket  and  the  whiskers;  but 
the  servant-girl,  in  believing  the  reality  of  the  apparition,  was  cer- 
tainly not  insane.  When  1  read  in  the  American  public  journals! 
of  'spiritual  manifestation,'  in  which  large  numbers  of  persons  of  at 
least  tin-  average  degree  of  education,  declare  that  they  have  ac- 
tually witnessed  various  phantasms  much  more  extraordinary  than 


*  Miiller's  Physiology  of  the  Senses,  p.  394. 

Lbercrombie  on  the  Intellectual  Powers,  ;>.  281.    (15th  edition.) 

.  At  tin-  (Lite  of  Faber's  c  oversation  with  Allen  Fenwick,  the  (so-called) 
spirit  manifestations  had  nol  spread  from  A 1 1 h ■  i- i < * . ,  over  Europe,  Hut  if  they 
hid.  Faber's  views  would,  no  doubt,  have  remained  tin-  same. 


200  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

all  which  you  have  confided  to  me,  and  arrive,  at  once,  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  they  are  thus  put  into  direct  communicatiou  with  departed 
souls,  I  mu'sl  assume  that  they  are  under  an  illusion,  but  I  should 
be  utterly  unwarranted  in  supposing  that  because  they  credited 
that  illusich  they  were  insane.  I  should  only  say  with  Miiller,  that 
in  tlieii'  reasoning  on  the  phenomena  presented  to  them,  'their  in- 
tellect was  imperfectly  exercised.'  And  an  impression  made  on 
the  senses,  being  in  itself  sufficiently  rare  to  excite  our  wonder,  may 
be  strengthened  till  it  takes  the  form  of  a  positive  fact,  by  various 
coincidences  which  are  accepted  as  corroborative  testimony,  yet 
which  are,  nevertheless,  nothing  more  than  coincidences  found  in 
every-day  matters  of  business,  but  only  emphatically  noticed  when 
we  can  exclaim,  'How  astonishing!'  In  your  case  such  coin- 
cidences have  been,  indeed,  very  signal,  and  might  well  aggravate 
the  perplexities  into  which  your  reason  was  thrown.  Sir  Philip 
Derval's  murder,  the  missing  casket,  the  exciting  nature  of  the 
manuscript,  in  which  a  superstitious  interest  is  already  enlisted  by 
yoof  expectation  to  find  in  it  the  key  to  the  narrator's  boasted  pow- 
ers, and  his  reasons  for  the  astounding  denunciation  of  the  man 
whom  you  suspect  to  be  his  murderer ;  in  all  this  there  is  much  to 
confirm,  nay,  to  cause,  an  illusion,  and  for  that  very  reason,  when 
examined  by  strict  laws  of  evidence,  in  all  this  there  is  but  addi- 
tional proof  that  the  illusion  was — only  illusion.  Your  affections 
contribute  to  strengthen  your  fancy  in  its  war  on  your  reason. 
The  girl  you  so  passionately  love  develops,  to  your  disqUie 
and  terror,  the  visionary  temperament  which,  at  her  age,  is  ever 
liable  to  fantastic  caprices.  She  hears  Margrave's  song,  which, 
you  say.  has  a  wildness  of  charm  that  affects  and  thrills  even  you. 
Who  does  not  know  the  power  of  music  1  and  of  all  music,  there  is 
none  so  potential  as  that  of  the  human  voice.  Thus,  in  some 
languages,  charm  and  song  are  identical  expressions ;  and  even 
w  hen  a  critic,  in  our  own  sober  newspapers  extols  a  Mali  bran  or  a 
'Grisi,  you  may  be  sure  that  he  will  call  her  'enchantress.'  Well, 
this  lady,  your  betrothed,  in  whom  the  nervous  system  is  extremely 
impressionable,  hears  a  voice,  which,  even  to  your  ear,  is  strangely 
melodious,  and  sees  a  form  and  face  which,  even  to  your  eye,  are 
endowed  with  a  singular  character  of  beauty.  Her  fancy  is  im- 
pressed by  what  she  thus  hears  and  sees,  and  impressed  the  more, 
because,  by  a  coincidence  not  very  uncommon,  a  face  like  that 
which  she  beholds,  has  before  been  presented  to  her  in  a  dream  or 
a  reverie.  In  the  nobleness  of  genuine,  confiding,  reverential  love, 
rather  than  impute  to  your  beloved  a  levity  of  sentiment  that  would 
seem  to  you  a  treason,  you  accept  the  chimera  of  'magical  fascin- 
ation.'' In  this  frame  of  mind  you  sit  down  to  read  the  memoir  of 
a  mysticalienthusiast.  Do  you  begin  now  to  account  for  the  Lumi- 
nous Shadow  1  A  dream  !  And  a  dream  no  less  because  your 
eyes  were  open  and  you  believed  yourself  awake.  The  diseased 
imagination  resembles  those  mirrors  which,  being  themselves  dis- 
torted, represent  distorted  pictures  as  correct. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  801 

"  Ami  even  this  memoir  of  Sir  Philip  Derval's  ; — can  you  be 
quite  sure  that  you  actually  read  the  part  which  relates  to  Haroun 
and  Louis  (irayh-  .'  Vou  say  that,  while  perusing  the  manuscript, 
yoa  saw  the  Luminous  Shadow  and  became  insensible.  The  old 
woman  says  you  wore  fast  asleep.  May  you  not  really  have  fallen 
into  a  slumber,  and  in  that  slumber  have  dreamed  the  parts  of  the 
tale  that  relate  to  Grayle  ?  dreamed  that  you  beheld  the  Shadow  I 
Do  you  remember  what  is  said  SO  well  by  Dr.  Abererombie,  to  au- 
thorize the  explanation  1  suggest  to  you:  'A  person  under  the 
influence*  of  some  strong  mental  impression  tails  asleep  for  a  few 
seconds,  perhaps  without  being  sensible  pf  it  ;  some  scene  or  per- 
son appears  in  a  dream,  and  he  starts  up  under  the  conviction  that 
it  was  a  spectral  appearance.'"* 

"  Bat,"  said  1,  "the  apparition  was  seen  by  me  again,  and  when 
1.  certainly,  was  not  sleeping. 

"True;  and  who  should  know  better  than  a  physician  so  well 
read  as  yourself  that  a  spectral  illusion  once  beheld  m  always  apt 
to  return  again  in  the  same  form.  Thus.  Goethe  was  long  haunted 
by  one  image;  the  phantom  of  a  flower  unfolding  itseli  i  elop- 

ing new  flowers.t  Thus,  one  of  our  most  distinguished  philosophers 
tells  us  of  a  lady  known  to  himself,  who  would  see  her  husband, 
hear    him    move   am!    speak,  was  not  even  in    the   house. % 

Bui  insi;.  ie  facility  which  phantasms,  once  admitted,  re- 

peal themselves  to  the  senses  are  numberless.  Many  are  recorded 
by  Hibbert  and  Abererombie,  and  every  physician  in  extensive 
practice  can  add  largely  from  his  own  experience  to  the  list.  In- 
tense self-concentration  is,  in  itself,  a  mighty  magician.  The 
magicians  of  the  East  inculcate  the  necessity  of  fast,  solitude,  and 

Abererombie  mi  the  Intellectual   Powers^  p.  278.    (15th  edition.)    This 
author,  not  more  [red  for  hi  ice  than  his  candor,  an< 

is  entitled  to  praise  for 'a  higher  degree  of  original  thought  than  which 

he  modestly  pretends,  relates  a   curious  anecdote  illustrating  "the  ai 

een  dreaming  and  spectral  illusion,  which  he  received  from  the  •_■> 
man  to  whom  it   occurred — an  eminent  medical  friend:"     "Having  sei  up 
late  one  evening,  under  considerable  anxiety  for  one  ol  his  children,  who  was 
ill,   he   fell  asleep   in   bis  chair,  and    had  a  frightful  drearj,  in  which  the 
prominent  figure  was  an  immense  baboon:     He  awoke  With  the  fright,  got  up 

nd  walked  to  a  table  which  Was  in  the  middle  of  the 
was  then  quite  awake,  and  quite  conscious  of  the  articles  around  him;  bul 
close  by  the  wall  in  the  <  nd  of  the  apartment   he  distinctly  saw  the  baboon 
making  the  Bame  grimaces  which  he  bad  seen  in  his  dream  ;   and  this  8] 

med  visible   for  about   halt  a   minute."    New,  a  man  who  saw  oulj  a 
baboon  would  be  quite  i  dmit  that  it  was  bul  an  rtptical  illusion  ;  but 

boon,  be  had  seen  an  intimate  friend,  and  that  friend,  by  some 
had   died   about    that  date,  he  would  be  a  very  strong- 
minded  man  it  lie  admitted,  for  the  mystefj  of  seeing  his  friend,  the 
natural  solution  which  he  v.  admit  for  seeing  a  baboon. 

! 
Delation,  p.  I 

'.'.I. 


202  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

meditation  for  the  due  development  of  their  imaginary  powers. — 
And  I  have  no  doubt  with  effect ;  because  fast,  solitude,  and  medi- 
tation— iu  other  words,  thought  or  fancy  intensely  concentred,  will 
both  raise  apparitions  and  produce  the  invoker's  belief  in  them. — 
Spinello,  striving  to  conceive  the  image  of  Lucifer  for  his  picture 
of  the  Fallen  Angels,  was  at  first  actually  haunted  by  the  Shadow 
of  the  liend.  Newton  himself  has  been  subjected  to  a  phantom, 
though  to  him,  Son  of  Light,  the  spectre  presented  was  that  of  the 
sun  !  You  remember  the  account  that  Newton  gives  to  Locke  of 
this  visionary  appearance,  lie  says  that  '  though  he  had  looked 
at  the  sun  with  his  right,  eye  only,  and  not  with  the  left,  yet  his 
faucy  began  to  make  an  impression  upon  his  left  eye  as  well  as  his 
right,  for  if  he  shut  his  right  and  looked  upon  the  clouds,  or  a  book, 
or  any  bright  object  with  his  left  eye,  he  could  see  the  sun  almost 
as  plain  as  with  the  right,  if  he  did  but  Intend  his  fancy  a  little 
while  on  it ;'  nay,  'for  some  months  after,  as  often  as  he  began  to 
meditate  on  the  phenomena,  the  spectrum  of  the  sun  began  to  re- 
turn, even  though  he  lay  iu  bed  at  midnight,  with  his  curtains 
drawn  ! '  Seeing,  then,  how  any  vivid  impression  once  made  will 
recur,  what  wonder  that  you  should  behold  in  your  prison  the 
Shining  Shadow  that  had  first  startled  you  in  a  wizard's  cham- 
ber when  poring  over  the  records  of  a  murdered  visionary  ?  The 
more  minutely  you  analyze  your  own  hallucinations — pardon  me 
the  word — the  more  they  assume  the  usual  characteristics  of  a 
dream;  contradictory,  illogical, even  in  the  marvels  they  represent. 
Can  any  two  persons  be  more  totally  unlike  each  other,  not  merely 
as  to  form  and  years,  bat  as  to  all  the  elements  of  character,  than 
the  Grayle  of  whom  you  read,  and  the  Margrave  in  whom  you  evi- 
dently think  that  Grayle  is  existent  still  1  The  one  represented, 
you  say,  as  gloomy,  saturnine,  with  violent  passions,  but  with  an 
original  grandeur  of  thought  and  will,  consumed  by  an  internal  re- 
morse ;  the  other  you  paint  to  me  as  a  joyous  and  wayward  dar- 
ling of  Nature,  acute,  yet  frivolous,  free  from  even  the  ordinary 
passions  of  youth,  taking  delight  in  innocent  amusements,  incapable 
of  continuous  study,  without  a  single  pang  of  repentance  for  the 
crimes  you  so  fancifully  impute  to  him.  And  now,  when  your  sus- 
picions, so  romantically  conceived,  are  dispelled  by  positive  facts, 
now,  when  it  is  clear  that  Margrave  neither  murdered  Sir  Philip 
Derval  nor  abstracted  the  memoir,  you  still,  unconsciously  to  your- 
self, draw  on  your  imagination  iu  order  to  excuse  the  suspicion 
your  pride  of  intellect  declines  to  banish,  and  suppose  that  this 
youthful  sorcerer  tempted  the  madman  to  the  murder,  the  woman 
to  theft " 

"  But  you  forget  the  madman  said  '  that  he  wTas  led  on  by  the 
Luminous  Shadow  of  a  beautiful  youth,'  that  the  woman  said  also 
that  she  was  impelled  by  some  mysterious  agency." 

"  1  do  not  forget  those  coincidences  ;  but  how  your  learning 
would  dismiss  them  as  nugatory  were  your  imagination  not  dis- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  20  3 

posed  to  exaggerate  them !  When  you  read  the  authentic  histo- 
ries of  any  popular  yiusion,  such  as  the  spurious  inspirations  of  the 
jansenist  Convulsionaries,  the  apparitions  that  invaded  oonventSj 
as  deposed  to  in  the  trial  of  tjrbain  Grandier,  the  confes- 
sions of  witches  and  wizards  in  [daces  the  most  remote  from  each 
oilier,  or,  at  this  day,  the  tales  of  * spirit-manifestation '  recorded 
in  halt  the  towns  and  villages  of  America — do  not  all  the  super- 
stitious impressions  of  a  particular  time  have  a  common  family 
likeness?  What  ore  sees,  another  sees,  though  there  has  been  no 
communication  between  the  two.  I  cannot  tell  you  why  these 
phantasms  thus  partake  of  the  nature  of  ail  atmospheric  epidemic; 
the  fad  remains  incontestable!  And,  strange  as  may  he  the  coin- 
cidence between  your  impressions  of  a  mystic  agency  and  those  6f 
some  other  brains  nut  cognizant  of  the  chimeras  of  your  own,  still 
if  is  not  simpler  philosophy  to  say.  'They  are  coincidences  of  the 
same  nature  which  made  witches  in  the  same  epoch  all  tell  much 
the  same  story  of  the  broomsticks  they  rode  and  the  sahbats  al  which 
they  danced  to  the  fiend's  piping,' and  there  leave  the  matter}  as 
in  science  we  must  leave  many  of  the  most  elementary  and  familiar 
phenomena  inexplicable  as  to  their  causes — is  not  this,  1  say, 
more  philosophical  than  to  insist  upon  an  explanation  which  ac- 
06]  I  the  supernatural  rather  than  leave  the  extraordinary  unac- 
counted lor  :'" 

"As  you  speak,"  sajd  [/resting  my  downcast  face  upon  my 
hand.  "  1  should  speak  to  any  patient  who  had  confided  to  me  the 
tale  1  have  told  to  you." 

•'  And  yet.  the  explanation  does  not  windy  satisfy  you  I  Very  like- 
ly :  io  si  me  phenomena  there  is,  as  yet.  no  explanation.  Perhaps 
Newton  himself  could  not  explain  quite  to  his  own  satisfaction  whj 
he  was  haunted  at  midnight  by  the  spectrum  of  a  sun  ;  though  1 
have  no  doubl  that  sonic  later  philosopher,  whose  ingenuity  has 
been  stimulated  by  Newton's  account,  has,  by  this  time,  sugge 
a  rational  solution  of  that  enigma.*     To  return  to  your  own  case. 

*  Newton's  explanations  is  as  follows:  "'this  story  I  tell  you  to  let  you  un- 
derstand, that  in  fli''  observation  related  by  Mr.  Boyle,  the  man's  fancy 
my  concurred  witli  the  impression  made  by  the  sun's  ligh<  to  produce 
tiiai  phantasm  of  the  sun  which  1"'  constantly  saw  in  oright  objects,  and  bo 
your  question  about  the  cause  of  this  phantasm  inn/Ins  another  about  the 
power  of  the  fancy,  which  I  must  confess  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  in  untie. 
■  <-c  this  effect  in  a  constant  motion  i>  I  e  the  sun  ought  then 

to  appear  perpetually.     It    seems   rather  to  consist   in   a  disposition  of  the 
sensorium  to  move  the  imagination  strongly,  and  to  lie  easily  moved  i>< 
the  imagination  and  by  the  light  as  often  as  bright  objects  are  looked  upon." 
— Letter  from  Sir  I.  Newton  tn  Locke,  Lord  King's  Life  «f  Lochc,  ml.  i.  pp. 

in-  limal  and  Vegetable  Physiol  red  with  reference  to 

il  Theology.  Bridge  water  Treati  ■)  thus  refers  to  this 

phenomenon,  which  hestates  "all  of  u    may  experi 

"When  the  in  ivid  '  (Dr.  Rnget  is  speaking  of  visual 

impressions)  "another  phenomenon  oftfMi   takes  place,   namely,  their  subsr- 


204  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

I  have  offered  such  interpretations  of  the  mysteries  that  confound 
you,  as  appear  to  me  authorized  by  physiological  science.  Should 
you  adduce  other  facts  which  physiological  science  wants  the  data 
to  resolve  into  phenomena  always  natural,  however  rare,  still  hold 
fast  to  that  simple  saying  of  Goethe's — 'Mysteries  are  not  neces- 
sarily miracles.'  And,  if  all  which  physiological  science  compre- 
hends in  its  experience  wholly  fails  us,  I  may  then  hazard  certain 
conjectures  which,  by  acknowledging  ignorance,  is  compelled  to 
recognize  the  marvelous — (for,  as  where  knowledge  enters  the 
marvelous  recedes,  so  where  knowledge  falters,  the  marvelous  ad- 
vances)— yet,  still,  even  in  those  conjectures,  I  will  distinguish  the 
marvelous  from  the  supernatural.  But,  for  the  present,  I  advise 
you  to  accept  the  guess  that  may  best  cpriet  .the  fevered  imagina- 
tion which  any  bolder  guess  would  only  yet  more  excite." 

"You  are  right,"  said  I,  rising  proudly  to  the  full  height  of  my 


quent  recurrence  after  a  certain  interval,  during  which  they  are  not  felt,  and 
quite  independently  of  any  renewed  application  of  the  cause  which  had  originally 
excited  them.'"  (I  mark  by  italics  the.  words  which  more  precisely  coincide 
with  Julius  Faber's  explanations.)  "If,  for  example,  we  look  steadfastly  at 
the  sun  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  immediately  close  our  eyes,  the  image 
ot'  spectrum  of  the  sun  remains  for  a  long  time  present  to  the  mind  as  if  the 
light  were  still  acting  on  the  retina.  It  then  gradually  fades  and  disappears ; 
but  if  we  continue  to  keep  the  eyes  shut,  the  same  impression  will,  after  a 
certain  time,  recur  and  again  vanish  :  and  this  phenomenon  will  be  repeated  at  in- 
tervals, the  sensation  becoming  fainter  at  each  renewal.  It  is  probable  that 
these  reappearances  of  the  image,  after  the  light  which  produced  the  original 
impression  has  been  withdrawn,  are  occasioned  by  spontaneous  affections  of 
the  retina  itself  which  are  conveyed  to  the  sensorium.  In  other  cases  where 
the  impressions  are  less  strong,  the  physical  changes  producing  these  changes 
are  perhaps  confined  to  the  sensorium." 

It  may  be  said  that  there  is  this  difference  between  the  spectrum  of  the 
m:ii  and  such  a  phantom  as  that  which  perplexed  Allen  Fenvvick — namely,  that 
the  sun  had  been  actually  beheld  before  its  visionary  appearance  can  be  re 
produced,  and  that  Allen  Fenwick  only  imagines  he  has  seen  the  apparition 
which  repeats  itself  to  his  fancy.  •"  But  there  are  grounds  for  the  suspicion  " 
(says  Dr.  ilibbert,  Philosophy  of  Apparitions,  p.  250),  "that  when  ideas  of 
vision  arc  vivified  to  the  height  of  sensation,  a  corresponding  affection  of  the 
optic  nerve  accompanies  the  illusion."  Miiller  (Physiology  of  the  Senses,  p. 
1,392,  Bayleji's  translation)  states  the  same  opinion  still  more  strongly,  and  Sir 
David  Brewster,  quoted  by  Dr.  Hibbert(p.  251),  says;  "  In  examining  these 
mental  impressions  I  have  found  that  they  follow  the  motions  of  the  eyeball 
exactly  like  the  spectral  impressions  of  luminious  objects,  and  that  they  re- 
semble them  also  in  their  apparent  immobility  when  the  eye  is  displaced  by  an 
external  force.  If  this  result  (which  I  state  with  much  diffidence,  from  hav- 
ing only  my  own  experience  in  its  favor)  shall  be  found  generally  true  by 
others,  it  will  follow  that  the  objects  of  mental  contemplation  m*y  be  seen  as 
distinctly  as  external  objects,  and  will  occupy  the  same  local  position  in  the  axis 
of  vision,  as  if  they  had  been  formed  by  the  agency  of  light."  Hence  the  im- 
pression of  an  image  once  conveyed  to  the  senses,  no  matter  how,  whether  by 
actual  or  illusory  vision,  is  liable  to  renewal,  "independently  of  any  renewed 
application  of  the  cause  which  had  originally  excited  it,"  and  can  be  seen  in 
that  renewal  as  "distinctly  as  external  objects,"  for  indeed  "  tne  revival  of 
the  fantastic  figure  really  does  affect  those  points  of  the  retina  which  had  been 
previously  impressed." 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  205 

stature,  my  head  erect  and  my  heart  defying.  "  And  so,  let  this 
subject  be  renewed  no  inure  between  us.  1  will  brood  over  il  no 
more  myself.  I  regain  the  unclouded  realm  of  my  human  intelli- 
gence; and,  in  that  intelligence,  I  mock  the  sorcerer  and  disdain 
the  spectre." 


CHAPTEE  XLVI. 

Julius  Faber  and  Amy  Lloyd  stayed  in  my  house  three  days, 
and  in  her  presence  I  felt  a  healthful  sense  of  security  and  peace. 
Amy  wished  to  visit  her  father's  house,  and  I  asked  Faber,  in  taking 
her  there,  to  seize  the  occasion  to  see  Lilian,  that  he  might  com- 
municate to  me  his  impression  of  a  case  so  peculiar.  1  prepared 
Mrs.  Ashleigb  for  this  visi;  by  a  previous  note.  When  the  old  man 
and  the  child  came  hack,  both  brought  me  comfort.  Amy  was 
charmed  with  Lilian,  who  had  received  her  with  the  sweetness 
natural  to  her  real  character,  and  I  loved  to  hear  Lilian's  praise 
from  those  jpnocent  lips. 

Faber's  report  was  still  more  calculated  to  console  me: 
"I  have  seen.  I  have  conversed  with  her  long  and  familiarly. 
You  were  quite  right,  there  is  no  tendency  to  consumption  in  that 
exquisite,  if  delicate,  organization  ;  nor  do  1  see  cause  for  the  fear 
to  which  your  statement  had  preinclined  me.  That  head  is  too 
nobly  formed  for  any  constitutional  cerebral  infirmity.  In  its  or- 
ation, ideality;  wonder,  veneration  are  large,  it  is  time,  but 
they  are  balanced  by  other  organs,  now  perhaps  almost  dormant, 
bul  which  will  come  into  play  as  life  passes  from  romance  into 
duty.  Something  at  this  moment  evidently  oppresses  her  mind. 
tn  conversing  with  her,  I  observe  abstraction — listlessnesa;  but  i 
am  so  convinced  of  her  truthfulness,  that  if  she  has  once  told  you  she 
returned  your  affection,  and  pledged  to  you  her  faith,  1  should,  in 
your  place,  rest  perfectly  satisfied  that  whatever  he  the  cloud  that 
now  rests  on  her  imagination,  and  for  a  lime  obscures  the  id 
yourself,  it  will  pass  away.'' 

iber  was  a  believer  in  the  main  divisions  of  "phrenology,  though 
he  did  not  accept  all  the  dogmas  of  (Jail  and  Spurzheiin ;  while  to 
my  mind,  Ihe  refutation  of  phrenology  in  its  fundamental  proposi- 
tions had  been  triumphantly  established  by  the  lucid  arguments  of 
Sir  W.  Hamilton*  But  when  Faber  rested  on  phrenological  ob- 
servations, assurances  in  honor  (if  Lilian,  I  forgot  Sir  YY.  Hamilton, 
and  believed  in  phrenology.     As  iron  girders  and  pillars  expand 

*  The  summary  of  thie  (listing  oturer'a  objection  to  phrenology  is 

to  be  found  m  the  Appendix  to  vol.  i,  on  Metaphysics,  p.  404  et 

teq.    Edition  I- 


206  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

and  contract  with  the  mere  variations  of  temperature,  so  will  the 
strongest  conviction  on  which  the  human  intellect  rests  its  judg- 
ment, vary  with  the  changes  of  the  human  heart;  and  the  building 
ily  sale  where  these  variations  are  foreseen  and  allowed  for  by 
a  wisdom  intent  on  self-knowledge* 

There  was  much  in  the  affection  that  had  sprang  up  between 
.Julius  Faber  and  Amy  Lloyd  which  touched  my  heart  and  softened 
all  its  emotions.  The  man,  unblessed  like  myself,  by  conjugal 
and  parental  ties,  had,  in  his  solitary  age,  turned  for  solace  to  the 
love  of  a  child,  as  1,  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  had  turned  to  the 
love  of  a  woman.  But.  his  love  was  without  fear,  without  jealousy, 
without  trouble.  My  sunshine  came  to  me,  in  a  fitful  ray,  through 
clouds  that  had  gathered  over  my  noon  ;  his  sunshine  covered  all 
his  landscape,  hallowed  and  hallowing  bv  the  calm  of  declining 
day. 

And  Amy  was  no  common  child.       She  had  no  exuberant  im- 
ition  ;  she  was  haunted  by  no  whispers  from  Afar  ;  she  was  a 
are  fitted  for  the  earth,  to  accept  its -duties  and  to  gladden  its 
cures.     Her  tender  observation,  fine  and  tranquil,  was  alive  to  all 
the  important  household  trifles,  by  which,  at  the  earliest  age,  man's 
allotted   soother  asserts  her  privilege  to  tend  and  to  comfort,      It 
was  pleasant  to  see  her  moving  so  noiselessly  through  the  rooms 
I  had  devoted  to  her  venerable  protector,  knowing  all  his  simple 
wants,  and  providing  for  them  as  if  by  the  mechanism  of  a  heart 
exquisitely  moulded  to  the  loving  uses  of  life.     Sometimes  when 
I  saw  her  setting  his  chair  by  the  window  (knowing,  as  I  did,  how 
;    he  habitually  loved  to  be  near  the  light)  and  smoothing  his 
i  which  he  was  apt  to  be  unmethodical),  placing  the  mark 
is  book  \vhen  he  ceased   to   read,  divining,  almost  without  his 
glance,  some  wish  passing  through  his  mind,  and  then  seating  her- 
self at  his  feet,  often  with  her  work — which  was  always  destined 
for  him  or  for  one  of  her  absent  brothers — low  and  then,  with  the 
small  book  that  she  had  carried  with   her,  a  selection  of  Bible 
s  compiled  for  children  ; — sometimes  when   I  saw  her  thus, 
how  1  wished  that  Lilian,  too,  could  have  seen  her,  and  have  com- 
pared her  own  ideal  phantasies  with  those  young  developments  of 
the  natural  heavenly  Woman  ! 

But  was  there  nothing  in  that  sight  from  which  I,  proud  of  my 
arid  reason  even  in  its  perplexities,  might-have  taken  lessons  for 
myself.' 

On  the  second  evening  of  Faber's  visit  I  brought  to  him  the 
draft  of  deeds  for  the  sale  of  his  property.     He  had  never  been  a 

*  The  change  of  length  in  iron  girders  caused  by  variation  of  temperature, 
has  not  unfrequently  brought  down  the  whole  edifice  into  which  they  were 
Vied.  Good  engineers  and  architects  allow  for  such  changes  produced  by 
temperature;  In  the  tubular  bridge  across  the  Meuai  Straits,  a.  self-acting 
record  of  the  daily  amount  of  its  contraction  and  expanse  is  ingeniously  con- 
trived. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  20"i 

man  of  business  out  of  liis  profession ;  he  was  impatient  to  soil  his 
property,  and  disposed  to  accept  an  offer  at  half  its  value.  I  in- 
sisted en  taking  on  myself  the  task  of  negotiator;  perhaps,  too,  in 
this  office  I  w&s  egotistically  anxious  to  prove  to  thegreat  physician 
that  that  which  he  believed  to  he  my  "hallucination"  had  in  no 
way  obscured  my  common  sense  in  the  daily  affairs  of  life.  So  1 
concluded,  and  in  a  lew  hours,  terms  for  his  property  that  were 
only  just,  but  were  infinitely  more  advantageous  than  had  appeared 
to  himself  to  he  possible.  Hut,  as  1  approached  him  with  the 
papers,  he  put  his  linger  to  his  lips.  Amy  was  standing  by  him 
with  her  little  hook  in  her  hand,  and  his  own  Bible  lay  open  on  the 
table.  He  was  reading  to  her  from  the  Sacred  Volume  itself,  and 
impressing  on  her  the  force  and  beauty  of  one  of  the  Parables,  the 
adaptation  of  which  had  perpiexed  her;  when  he  had  done,  she 
kissed  him.  hade  him  good  night,  and  wen!  away  to  rest.  Then 
said  Faber  thoughtfully,  and  as  if  to  himself  more  than  me. 

"  What  lovely  bridge  between  old  age  and  childhood  is  re- 
ligion !  How  intuitively  the  child  begins  with  prayer  and  worship 
on  entering  lite,  and  how  intuitively  on  quitting  life  the  old  man 
turns  hack  to  prayer  and  worship,  putting  himself  again  side  by 
side  with  the  infanl  ! "' 

1  made  no  answer,  hut,  after  a  pause,  spoke  of  lines  and  free- 
holds, title-deeds  and  money  ;  and  when  the  business  on  hand  was 
concluded,  asked  nry  learned  guest  if,  before  he  departed,  he  would 
o  too  look  over  the  pages  of  my  ambitious  Physiological  "Work. 
There  were  pans  of  it  on  which  1  much  desired  ins  opinion,  touch- 
ing on  subjects  in  which  his  special  studies  made  him  an  authority 
i  -as  our  land  possessed. 

lie  made  me  bring  him  the  manuscript,  and  devoted  much  of 
thai  niglii  and  the  nexl  day  to  its  perusal. 

When  he  gave  it  to  me  hack,  which  was  not  till  the  morning  of 
his  departure,  he  commenced  with  eulogies  on  the  scope  of  its  de- 
sign and  the  manner  of  its  execution,  which  flattered  my  vanity  so 
much  that    1   could  not.  help  exclaiming,  "Then,  at  least,  thei 
no  trace  of  'hallucination'  here  !"' 

'•  .Mas,  my  poor  Allen  !  hens  perhaps,  hallucination,  or  self- 
deception,  is  more  apparent  than  in  all  the  strange  tales  you  con- 
fided to  me.  for  here  is  the  hallucination  of  a  man  seated  on  the 
shores  of  Nature,  and  who  would  say  to  its  measureless  sea,  'So 
far  shall  thou  go  and  no  further  !' — here  is  the  hallucination  of  the 
creature,  who.  not  content  with  exploring  the  laws  of  the  Creator, 
ends  with  suhmitling  to  his  interpretation  of  some  three  or  four 
laws,  in  the  midst  of  a  code  of  which  all  the  resl  are  in  language 
unknown  to  him — the  powers  and  free-will  of  the  Lawgiver  hini- 
:  here  is  the  hallucination  by  which  Nature  is  left  (lodlcss — 
se  man  is  left  soulless.  Whai  would  mailer  all  our  specula- 
tions on  a  Deity  who  would  eeasl  to  exist  for  us  when  we  are  in 
the  grave  I     Why  meie  out,  like  Archytas,  the  earth  and  the  sea. 


208  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

and  number  the  sands  on  the  store  that  divides  them,  if  the  end  of 
this  wisdom  be  a  handfull  of  dust  sprinkled  over  a  skull ! 

'Nee  quidquam  tibi  prodest 
Aerias  teniafese  domos,  animo'que  rotundum 
Percurbse  polum  morituro.' 

Your  book  is  a  proof  the  soul  that  you  fail  to  discover.  "Without  a 
soul,  no  man  would  work  for  a  future  that  begins  for  his  fame 
when  the  breath  is  gone  from  his  body.  Do  you  remember  how 
you  saw  that  little  child  praying  at  the  grave  of  her  father  ?  Shall 
I  tell  you  that  in  her  simple  orisons  she  prayed  for  the  benefactor — 
who  had  cared  for  the  orphan  ;  who  had  reared  over  dust  that 
toiii!)  which,  in  a  Christian  burial  ground,  is  a  mute  but  perceptible 
memorial  of  Christian  hopes  ;  that  the  child  prayed,  haughty  man, 
fur  you  1  And  you  sat  by  knowing  nought  of  this  ;  sat  by  amongst 
the  graves  troubled  and  tortured  with  ghastly  doubts — vain  of  a 
n  that  was  skeptical  of  eternity,  and  yet  shaken  like  a  reed 
by  a  moment's  marvel.  Shall  I  tell  the  child  io  pray  for  you  no 
more  ? — that  you  disbelieve  in  a  soul  ?  If  you  do  so,  what  is  the 
efficacy  of  prayer1?  Speak,  shall.  I  tell  her  this?  Shall  the  infant 
pray  for  you  never  more  ?" 

I  was  silent;  I  was  thrilled. 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  who,  in  denying  all  innate  per- 
ceptions as  well  as  ideas,  have  passed  on  to  deductions  from  which 
poor  Locke,  humble  Christian  that  he  was,  would  have  shrunk  in 
dismay  ;  has  it  never  occurred  to  you  as  a  wonderful  fact,  that 
the  easiest  tiling  in  the  world  to  teach  a  child  is  that  which  seems 
to  metaphysical  schoolmen  the  abstrusest  of  all  problems?  Read 
ail  those  philosophers'  wrangling  about  a  First  Cause,  deciding  mi 
what  are  miracles,  and  then  again  deciding  that  sitf:h  m'iracls  can- 
not be  ;  and  when  one  has  answered  another,  and  left  in  the  crucible 
of  wisdom  a  caput  mortuum  of  ignorance,  then  turn  your  eyes, 
and  look  at  the  infant  praying  to  the  invisible  God  at  his  mother's 
knees.  This  idea,  so  miraculously  abstract,  of  a  Power  that  the 
infant  has  never  seen,  that  cannot  be  symbolled  forth  and  ex- 
plained to  him  by  the  most  erudite  sage — a  Power,  nevertheless, 
that  watches  over  him,  that  hears  him,  that  sees  him,  that  will 
carry  him  across  the  grave,  that  will  enable  him  to  live  on  for- 
ever ; — this  double  mystery  of  a  Divinity  and  of  a  Soul  the  in- 
fant learns  with  the  most  facile  readiness,  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
his  reasoning  faculty.  Before  you  can  teach  him  a  rule  in  addi- 
tion, before  you  can  venture  to  drill  him  into  his  hornbook,  he 
leaps,  with  one  intuitive  spring  of  all  his  ideas,  to  the  comprehen- 
sion of  the  truths  which  are  only  incomprehensible  to  blundering 
sages  ?  And  you,  as  you  stand  before  me,  dare  not  say, «  Let  the 
child  pray  for  me  no  more  !  '  But  will  the  Creator  accept  the 
child's  prayer  for  the  man  who  refuses  prayer  for  himself?  Take 
my  advice — Pray  !      And  in  this  counsel  I  do  not  overstep  my 


A    STUA.VUE    STOKY.  209 

province.     I  speak  not  as  a  preacher,   but  as  a  physician.     For 
health  is  a  word  that  comprehends  bur  whole  organization,  and  a 
just  equilibrium  of  all  faculties  and  functions  is.the  condition  of 
•health.     As  m  your  Lilian,  the  equilibrium  ia  deranged  by  the 
over-indulgence  of  a  spiritual    mysticism  which  will. draws  from 
the  nutriment  of  duly  the  essential  pabulum  of  sober  sense,  so  in 
you,  the  resolute  negation  of  disciplined  spiritual  communion  be- 
tween Thought  and  Divinity,  robs  imagination  of  its  noblest  and 
safest  vent.     Tims,  from  opposite  extremes,  you  and  your  Lilian 
in  the  same  region   of  misl    and  cloud,  losing  sighjfc  of  each 
•  and  of  the  true  ends  of  life,  as  her  eyes  only  gaze/on  the 
stars,  and  yours  only  bend  to  the  earth.     Were  1  advising  her,  1 
should  say  :   '  Your  Creator  has  placed  the  scene  of  your  trial   lie- 
low,  and  not  in  the  stars."    Advising  you,  1  say  .-  '  Bui  in  the  trial 
below,  man  should  recognize  education  for  heaven.'     In  a  word,  I 
would  draw  somewhat  more  downward   her  fancy,  raise   some' 
more  upward   your  reason.     Take  my  advice,  then — Pray.     Your 
mental  system  needs  the  support  of  prayer  in  order  to  preserve  iis 
balance.      In    the  embarrassment  and   confusion  of  your  senses, 
clearness  of  perception  will  come  with    habitual   and  tranquil  con- 
fidence in  J  Sim  who  alike  rides    the  universe  and  reads   the   heart. 
I  only  say  here  what  has  !>een  said  much  better   before  by  a  rea- 
soncr  in  whom  all  students  of  Nature  recognize  a  guide.     I  see 
on  your  table  the  very  volume  of  Bacon  which  contains  the  pas- 
sage 1  commend  to  your  reflection.     Here  it   is.     Listen  :     '  Take 
an  example  of  a  dog,  and  mark  what  a  generosity  and  courage  he 
will  put  on  wh.'ii    he  finds   himself  maintained   by  a  man  who,  to 
him,  is,  instead  of  a  God.  or  melior  natura,  which  courage  is  man- 
ifestly such  as  that  creature,  without   that  confidence  of  a  better, 
nature  than  his  own,  could  never  attain.     So  man,  when  he  resteth 
and  assnreth  himself"  upon  divine  protection   and   favor,  gajthereth 
a  force  and  faith  which   human  nature  could  not  obtain.'*     You 
are  silent,  bul  your  gesture  tells  me  your  doubt — a  doubt  which 
your  heart,  so    femininely  tender,  will   not    speak  aloud,  lest  you 
should  rob   the   old    man   of  a  hope  with  which  your  strength  of 
manhood   dispenses — you  doubt  the  efficacy   of  prayer !      Pause 
and  reflect,  bold  but  candid  inquirer  into  the  laws  of  that  guide 
yon  call  Nature.      If  there  were  no  efficacy  in  prayer — if  prayer 
were  as  mere  an  illusion  of  superstitious  phantasy  as  augl  i  againsl 
which  your  reason  now- struggles — do  you  think  thafNature  her- 
self would  have  made  it  amongsl  the  mist   common  and  facile  of 
all  her  dictates  I     Do  you  believe  that  if  there  really  did  not  exist 
that  tie  between  Man  and  his  .Maker — that   link   between   lii'.'  here 
and  a  life  hereafter  which  is  found   in  what  we  call   Soul,  alone — 
that  wherever  you  look  through  the  universe,  you  would   behold  a 

_  "Bacon's  Essay  on  Atheism.     This  quotation  is  made  with  admirable  feli- 
city and  force  iiy  Dr.  Whewell,  page  378  of  Bridgeware r  Treatise,  on  Astron- 
omy dad  General  Physics  <■•  .si;!.  Reference  to  Natural  Theolocv 
14 


210  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

child  at.  prayer  1  Nature  inculcates  nothing  that  is  superfluous. — 
Nature  does  not  impel  the  leviathan,  or  the  lion,  or  the  eagle,  or  the 
moth,  to  pray  ;  she  impels  only  man.  Why  1  Because  man  only; 
has  soul,  and  Soul  seeks  to  commune' with  the  Everlasting,  as  a 
fountain  struggles  up  to  its  source.  Burn  your  book.  It  would 
found  you  a  reputation  for  learning  and  intellect  and  courage,  I 
allow ;  but  learning  and  intellect  and  courage  wasted  against  a 
Truth — like  spray  against  a  rock !  A  Truth  valuable  to  the 
world,  the  world  will  never  part  with.  You  will  not  injure  the 
truth,  but  you  will  mislead  and  destroy  many,  whose  best  secu 
is  in  the  Truth  which  you  so  eruditely  insinuate  to  be  a  fable. — 
Soul  and  Hereafter  are  the  heritage  of  all  men ;  the  humblest 
journeyman  in  those  streets,  the  pettiest  trader  behind  those  coun- 
ters, have  in  those  beliefs  their  prerogatives  of  royalty.  You 
would  dethrone  and  embrute  the  lords  of  the  earth  by  your  theo- 
ries. Fof  my  part,  having  given  the  greater  part  of  ray  life  to  the 
study  and  analysis  of  facts,  I  would  rather  be  the  author  #of  the 
tritest  homily,  of  the  baldest  poem,  that  inculcated  that  imperish- 
able essence  of  the  soul  to  which  I  have  neither  scalpel  nor  probe — 
than  be  the  founder  of  the  subtlest  school,  or  the  framer  of  the 
loftiest  verse,  that  robbed  my  feUow-men  of  their  faith  in  a  spirit 
that  eludes  the  dissec ting-knife,  in  a  being  that  escapes  the  grave- 
digger.  Burn  vour  Book — Accept  this  Book  instead;  Bead  and 
Pray." 

He  placed  his  Bible  in  my  hand,  embraced  me,  and,  an  hour  af- 
terwards, the  old  man  and  the  child  left  my  hearth  solitary  once 
more. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

That  night,  as  I  sat  in  my  study,  very  thoughtful  and  very 
mournful,  I  revolved  all  that  Julius  Faber  had  said,  and  the  im- 
pression his  words  had  produced,  became  gradually  weaker  and 
weaker,  as  my  reason,  naturally  combative,  rose  up  with  all  the 
replies  which  my  philosophy  suggested.  No  !  if  my  imagination 
had  really  seduced  and  betrayed  me  into  monstrous  credulities,  it 
was  clear  that  the  best  remedy  to  such  morbid  tendencies  towards 
the  Superstitious,  was  in  the  severe  exercise  of  the  facnlties  most 
opposed  to  Superstition  ;  in  the  culture  of  pure  reasoning;  in  the 
science  of  absolute  fact.  Accordingly,  I  placed  before  me  the 
very  book  which  Julius  Faber  had  advised  me  to  burn  ;  I  forced 
all  my  powers  of  mind  to  go  again  over  the  passages  wuich  con- 
tained the  doctrines  that  his  admonition  had  censured ;  and,  be- 
fore day-break,  I  had  stated  the  substance  of  his  argument,  and 
the  logical  reply  to  it,  in  an  elaborate  addition  to  my  chapter  on 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  211 

"  Sentimental  Philosophers."  While  thus  reflecting  the  purport 
of  his  parting-  counsels,  I  embodied  in  another  portion  of  my  work, 

his  views  mi  my  own'  "illusions,"  and  as  here  my  common  sense 
was  in  concord  with  his,  I  disposed  of  all  my  own  previous  doubts 
in  an  addition  In  my  favorite  chapter  "On  the  Cheats  of  the  Im- 
agination." And  when  the  pen  dropped  from  my  hand,  and  the 
day-star  gleamed  through  the  window,  my  heart  escaped  from  the 
labor  of  my  mind,  and  flew  hack  to  the  image  of  Lilian.  The 
pride  of  the  philosopher  died  out  of  me,  the  sorrow  of  the  man 
reigned  supreme,  and  1  shrank  from  the  coming  of  the  sun,  de- 
spondent. 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

Not  till  the  law  had  completed  its  proceedings  and  satisfied,  fche 
public  mind  as  to  the  murder  of  Sir  Philip  Derval,  were  the  re- 
mains of  the  deceased  consigned  to  the  family  mausoleum.  The 
funeral  was,  as  may  he  supposed,  strictly  private,  and  when  i, 
was  over,  the  excitement  caused  by  an  event  so  tragical  and  sin- 
gular, subsided.  New  topics  engaged  the  public  talk,  and — in 
my  presence,  at  least — the  delicate  consideration  due  to  one  whose 
name  had  been  so  painfully  mixed  up  in  the  dismal  story,  forb  ire 
a  topic  which  I  could  not  be  expected  to  hear  without,  distressful 
emotion.  Airs.  Ashleigh  I  saw  frequently  at  my  own  house  ;  she 
honestly  confessed  that  Lilian  had  not  shown  that  grief  at  the 
cancelling  of  our  engagement,  which  would  alone  justify  Mrs. 
Ashleigh  in  asking  me  again  to  see  her  daughter,  and  retract  my 
conclusions  against  our  union.  She  said  that  Lilian  was  quiet, 
not  uncbeerful,  never  spoke  of  me  nor  of  Margrave,  hut  seemed 
absent  and  preoccupied  as  before,  taking  pleasure  in  nothing  that 
had  heen  wont  to  please  her;  not  in  music,  nor  hooks,  nor  that 
tranquil  pastime  which  women  call  work,  and  in  which  they  find 
excuse  to  meditate,  in  idleness,  their  own  fancies.  She  rarely 
stirred  out — even  in  the  garden — when  she  did,  her  eyes  seemed 
to  avoid  the  house  in  which  .Margrave  had  lodged,  and  her  steps 
to  the  old  favorite  haunt  by  the  Monks'  Well.  She  would  remain 
silent  for  long  hours  together,  hut  the  silence  did  not  appear  me- 
lancholy. For  the  rest,  her  health  was  more  than  usually  good. 
Sti'd,_ Mrs.  Ashleigh  persisted  in  her  belief  that,  sooner  or  later, 
Lilian  would  return  to  her  former  self,  her  former  sentiments  for 
me,  and  she  entreated  me  not  as  yet  inlet  the  world  know  that 
our  engagement  was  broken  off.  ''Forif,"  said  she,  with  good 
sense,  "if  it  should  prove  not  to  he  broken  off,  only  suspended, 
and  afterwards  happily  renewed.,  there  will  be  two  stories  to  tell. 
when  no  story  is  needed.     Besides,  I  should  dread  the  effect  on 


212  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

Lilian,  if  offensive  gossips  babbled  to  her  on  a  matter  that  would 
excite  so  much  curiosity  as  the  rupture  of  a  union  in  winch  our 
neighbors  have  taken  so  general  an  interest." 

I  had  no  reason  to  refuse  acquiescence  in  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  re- 
quest, but  I  did  not  share  in  her  hopes;  I  felt  that  the  fair  pros- 
pects of  my  life  were  blasted  ;  I  could  never  love  another,  never 
wed  another;  I  resigned  myself  to  a  solitary  hearth,  rejoiced,  at 
least,  that  Margrave  had  not  revisited  at  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  ;  had 
not,  indeed,  reappeared  in  the  town.  He  was  still  staying  with 
Strahan,  who  told  me  that  his  guest  had  ensconced  himself  in 
Forman's  old  study,  and  amused  himself  with  reading — though 
not  long  at  a  time — the  curious  old  books  and  manuscripts 
found  in  the  library,  or  climbing  trees  like  a  schoolboy,  and  fami- 
liarizing himself  with  the  deer  and  the  cattle,  which  would  group 
round  him  quite  tame,  and  feed  from  his  hand.  Was  this  the  de- 
scription of  a  criminal  1  But  if  Sir  Philip's  assertion  were  really 
true  ;  if  the  criminal  were  man  without  soul ;  if  without  soul,  man 
would  have  no  conscience,  never  be  troubled  by  repentance,  and 
the  vague  dread  of  a  future  world, — why,  then,  should  not  the 
criminal  be  gay  despite  his  crimes,  as  the  white  bear  gambols  as 
friskily  after  his  meal  on  human  flesh  1  These  questions  would 
haunt  me  despite  my  determination  to  accept  as  the  right  solu- 
tion of  all  marvels  the  construction  put  on  my  narrative  by  Julius 
Faber. 

I'ays  passed  ;  I  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  Margrave!  I  be- 
gan half  to  hope  that,  in  the  desultory  and  rapid  changes  of  mood 
and  mind  which  characterized  his  restless  nature,  he  had  forgot- 
ten my  existence. 

One  morning,  I  went  out  early  on  my  rounds,  when  I  met 
Strahan  unexpectedly. 

"  I  was  in  search  of  you,"  he  said  "  for  more  than  one  person 
has  told  me  that  you  are  looking  ill  and  jaded.  So  you  are  ! 
And  the  town  now  is  hot  and  unhealthy.  You  must  come  to 
Derval  Court  for  a  week  or  so.  You  can  ride  into  town  every  day 
to  see  jour  patients.  Don't  refuse.  Margrave,  who  is  still  with 
me,  sends  all  kind  messages,  and  bade  me  say  that  he  entreats 
you  to  come  to  the  house  at  which  he  also  is  a  guest !  " 

I  started.  What  had  the  Scin-Lroca  required  of  me,  and  ob- 
tained to  that  condition  my  promise  ?  "  If  you  are  asked  to  the 
house  at  which  I  also  am  a  guest,  you  will  come  ;  you  will  meet 
and  converse  with  me  as  guest  speaks  to  guest  in  the  house  of  a 
host !  "  Was  this  one  of  the  coincidences  which  my  reason  was 
bound  to  accept  as  coincidences  and  nothing  more  ?  Tut,  tut ! 
Was  I  returning  again  to  my  "hallucinations?"  Granting  that 
Faber  and  common  sense  were  in  the  right,  what  was  this  Mar- 
grave ?  A  man  to  whose  friendship,  acuteness,  and  energy  I  was 
under  the  deepest  obligations  ;  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  active 
services  that  had  saved  my  life  from  a.  serious  danger,  acquitted 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  213 

my  honor  of  a-  horrible  suspicion.  "  I  thank  you,"  I  said  to 
Strahan,  "  I  will  come  ;  not,  indeed,  for  a  week,  but,  at  all  events, 
for  a  day  or  two." 

"  That's  right;  I  will  call  for  you  in  the  carriage  at  six  o'clock. 
You  will  have  done  your  day's  work  by  then  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  so  arrange." 

On  our  way  to  Derval  Court  thai  evening,  Strahan  talked  much 
about  Margrave,  of  whom,  nevertheless,  he  seemed  to  be  growing 
weary. 

"  His  high  spirits  are  too  much  for  one,"  said  he  ;  "  and  then  so 
rest  less — so  incapable  oi'  sustained  quiet  conversation.  And 
clever  though  lie  is,  he  can't  help  me  in  the  least  about  the  new 
house  I  shall  build.  He  has  no  notion  of  construction.  I  don't 
think  he  could  build  a  barn." 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  like  to  demolish  the  old  house,  and 
would  content  yourself  with  pulling  down  the  more  ancient  part 
of  it  ?  " 

"True.  At  first  it  seemed  a  pity  to  destroy  so  handsome  a 
mansion  ;  but  you  see,  since  poor  Sir  Philip's  manuscript,  on 
which  he  set  such  store,  has  been  too  mutilated,  I  fear,  to  allow 
in:'  to  aflfeol  his  wish  with  regard  to  it,  I  think  I  ought,  at  least, 
scrupulously  to  pbey  his  oilier  whims.  And,  besides — I  don't 
know — there  are  odd  noises  about  the  old  house.  I  don't  believe 
in  haunted  houses,  still  there  is  somethingdreary  in  strange  sounds 
at  the  dead  of  night,  even  if  made  by  rats,  or  winds  through  de- 
caying rafters.  You.  1  remember  at  college,  had  a  taste  for  archi- 
tecture, and  can  draw  plans.  I  wish  to  follow  out  Sir  Philip's  de- 
signs, but  on  a  smaller  scale  and  with  more  attention  to  comfort." 

Thus  he  continued  to  run  on,  satisfied  to  find  me  a  silent  and 
attentive  listener.  We  arrived  at  the  mansion  an  hour  before 
sunset,  the  westering  light  shining  full  against  the  many  windows 
(1  in  mouldering  pilasters,  and  making  a  general  dilapida- 
tion of  the  whole  place  yet  more  mournfully  evident, 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  to  the  dinner-hour.     I  went  up  atonce 

to  the  room  appropriated  to  me — not  the  one  I  had  before  occupied. 

Strahan  had   already  got    together  a  new  establishment,     I  was 

,glad  to  find  in  the  servant  who  attended  mean  old  acquaintance. 

lie  had  been  in  my  own  employ  when  I  first  settled  at  L ,  and 

hit  me  to  get  married.  He  and  his  wife  were  now  both  in  Strahan's 
service.  He  spoke  warmly  of  his  new  master  and  his  content- 
ment with  his  situation,  while  he  unpacked  my  carpet-bag  and  as- 
sisted me  to  change  my  dress.  But  the  chief  object  of  his  talk 
and  his  praise  was  Mr.  Margrave. 

■■  Such  a  bright  young  gentleman,  like  the  first  fine  day  in  May  !" 

When  1  entered  the  drawing-room,  Margrave  and  Strahan  were 
both  then-.  The  former  was  blithe  and  genial,  as  usual,  in  his 
welcome.  At  dinner,  and  during  the  whole  evening  till  we  retired 
severally  to  our  own  rooms,  he  was  the  principal  talker,;  recount- 


214  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

ing  incidents  of  travel,  always  very  loosely  strung  together,  jesting, 
good  humoredly  enough,  at  Strahan's  sudden  hobby  for  building, 
then  putting  questions  to  me  about  mutual  acquaintances,  but 
never  wailing  for  an  answer,  and  every  now  and  then,  as  if  at  ran- 
dom, startling  us  with  some  brilliant  aphorism  or  some  suggestion 
drawn  from  abstract  science  or  unfamiliar  erudition.  The  whole 
effect  was  sparkling,  but  I  could  well  understand,  that  if  long  con- 
tinued, it  would  become  oppressive.  The  soul  has  need  of  pauses 
of  repose — intervels  of  escape,  not  only  from  the  flesh,  but  even 
from  the  mind.  A  man  of  the  loftiest  intellect  will  experience 
times  when  mere  intellect  not  only  fatigues  him,  bat  amidst  its 
most,  original  conceptions,  amidst  its  proudest  triumphs,  has  a 
something  trite  and  common-place  compared  with  one  of  those 
vague  intimations  of  a  spiritual  destiny  which  are  not  within  the 
ordinary  domain  of  reason  ;  and,  gazing  abstractedly  into  space, 
will  leave  suspended  some  problem  of  severest  though!,  or  uncom- 
pleted some  golden  palace  of  imperial  poetry,  to  indulge  in  hazy 
reveries  that  do  not  differ  from  those  of  an  innocent  quiet  child  ! 
The  soul  has  a  long  road  to  travel — from  time  through  eternity. 
It  demands  its  halting  hours  of  contemplation.  Contemplation  is 
serene.  But  with  such  wants  of  an  immortal  immaterial  spirit, 
Margrave  had  no  fellowship,  no  sympathy  ;  and  for  myself,  I  need 
scarcely  add  that  the  lines  I  have  just  traced  1  should  not  have 
written  at  the  date  at  which  my  narrative  has  now  arrived. 


CHAPTEK  XLIX. 

I  had  no  case  that  necessitated  my  return  to  L the  follow- 
ing day.  The  earlier  hours  of  the  forenoon  I  devoted  to  Strahan 
and  his  building  plans.  Margrave  flitted  in  and  out  of  the  room 
fitfully  as  an  April  sunbeam,  sometimes  flinging  himself  on  a  sofa 
and  reading  for  a  few  minutes  one  of  the  volumes  of  the  ancient 
mystics,  in  which  Sir  Philip's  library  was  so  rich.  I  remember  it 
was  a  volume  of  Proclus.  He  read  that  crabbed  and  difficult 
Greek  with  a  fluency  that  surprised  me.  "  I  picked  up  the  ancient 
Greek,"  said  he,  "years  ago,  in  learning  the  modern."  But  the 
book  soon  tired  him  ;  then  he  would  come  and  disturb  us,  archly 
enjoying  Strahan's  peevishness  at  interruption  ;  then  he  would 
throw  open  the  window  and  leap  down,  chanting  one  of  his  wild 
savage  airs ;  and  in  another  moment  he  was  half  hid  under  the 
drooping  boughs  of  a  broad  lime-tree,  amidst  the  antlers  of  deer 
that  gathered  fondly  round  him.  In  the  afternoon  my  host  was 
called  away  to  attend  some  visitors  of  importance,  and  I  found 
myself  on  the  sward  before  the  house,  right  in  view  of  the  mauso- 
leum, and  alone  with  Margrave. 


v  A    STRANGE    STORY.  21£ 

I  turned  ray  eyes  from  that  Dumb  House  of  Death  wherein  rest- 
ed the  corpse  of  the  last  lord  of  the  soil,  so  strangely  murdered, 
with  a  strong  desire  to  speak  out  to  Margrave  the  doubts  respect- 
ing himself  that  tortured  me.  But;  selling  aside  the  promise  to 
the  contrary,  which  I  had  given,  or  dreamed  I  had  given,  to  the 
Luminous  Shadow — to  fulfil  that  desire  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble— impossible  to  any  one  gazing  on  that  radiant,  youthful  face  I 
1  think  1  see  him  now  as  1  saw  him  then  ;  a  white  doc,  that  even 
my  presence  could  not  scare  away  from  him,  clung  lovingly  to  his 
side,  looking  up  at  him  with  her  sofl  eyes.  He  stood  there  like  the 
incarnate  principle  of  mythological  sensuous  life.  1  have  before 
applied  tit  him*  that  illustration;  let  the  repetition  be  pardoned. 
Impossible,  i  repe.it  it,  to  say  to  that  creature,  face  to  faoe»4Ar1 
then  the  master  of  demonjae  arts  and  the  instigator  of  sefcret  mur- 
der I  "  As  if  from  redundant  happiness  within  himself,  he  was 
humming,  or  rather  cooing,  a  strain  of  music,  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 
SO  wildly  sweet,  and  so  unlike  the  music  one  hears  from  tutored 
lips  in  crowded  rooms  !  1  passed  my  hand  over  my  forehead  in 
bewilderment  and  awe. 

'•Are  there,"  I  said,- unconsciously — -'are  there,  indeed,  such 
prodigies  in  .Nature  ?  " 

"Mature  !  "  he  cried,  catching  up  the  word;  "talk  to  me  of 
Nature!     Talk  of  her.  the  wondrous  blissful  Mother!     Mother  1 

may  well  call  her.      I  am   her  Spoiled  child,  her   darling  But 

oh,  to  die,  ever  to  die,  ever  to  lose  sight  of  Nature ! — to  rot.  sense- 
less, whether  under  these  turi's.  Or  within  those  dead  walls " 

i  could  not  resist  the  answer  : 

"  Like  yon  murdered  hum  !     Murdered,  and  by  whom  V 
■  "By  whom?    1  thought  it  was  clearly  proved  V 

"  The  hand  was  proved  ;   what  influence  moved  the  hand?" 

"Tush  !  The  poor  wretoh  spoke  oi'  a  demon.  Who  can  tell  ? 
Nature  herself  is  a  grand  destroyer.  See  that  pretty  bird,  in  its 
beak  a  writhing  worm!  All  Nature's  children  live  to  take  life;* 
Done,  indeed,  so  lavishly  as  man.  What  hetacombs  slaughtered, 
not  to  satisfy  the  irresistible  sting  of  hunger,  but  for  the  wanton 
ostentation  of  a  feast,  which  he  may  scarcely  taste,  or  for  the  mere 
sport  that  he  finds  in  destroying.  We  speak  with  dread  of  the 
beasts  ef  prey  :  what  beast  of  prey  is  so  dire  a  ravager  as  man  ! 
'$■■>  cruel  and  so  treacherous  j  Look  at  yon  flock  of  sheep,  bred 
and  fattened  for  the  shambles;  and  this  hind  that  I  caress — if  I 


May  I  be  pardoned,  since  Allen  Fenwick  does  not  confute,  in  his  reply, 
the  triic  fallacy  contained  in  Margrave's  remarks  on  the  destroying  agencj  of 
Nature,  it'  I  earnestly  commend  to  the  general  reader  the  careful  perusal  of 
chapter  xiii.,  page  129,  of  Dr.  Buckland's  Bridgewater  Treattjse  (Geology  and 
Mineralogy)  on  the  "  Aggregate  of  animal  enjoyment  increased,  and  that  of 
pain  diminished,  by  the  existence  of  carnivorous  races."  Nothing  to  my  mind 
can  surpass  the  terseness  and  simplicity  with  which  the  truth  of  that  proposi- 
tion is  worked  out  to  tho  vindication  of  the  great  drama  [of  universal  life. 


216  A    STRANGE    STORY.  « 

were  the  park-keeper,  and  her  time  for  my  bullet  had  come,  would 
you  think  her  life  was  the  safer  because,  in  my  own  idle  whim,  I 
had  tamed  her  to  trust  to  the  hand  raised  to  slay  her  1 " 

"  It  is  true."  said  I,  "  a  grim  truth.  Nature,  on  the  surface  so 
loving  and  so  gentle,  is  full  of  terror  in  her  deeps  when  our  thought 
descends  into  their  abyss  !" 

Strahan  now  joined  us  with  a  party  of  country  visitors. ' 

"  Margrave  is  the  man  to  show  you  the  beauties  of  this  park," 
said  he.  "  Margrave  knows  every  bosk  and  dingle,  twisted  old 
thorn-tree,  or  opening  glade,  in  its  intricate,  undulating  ground." 

Margrave  seemed  delighted  at  this  proposition,  and  as  he  led  us 
through  the  park,  though  the  way  was  long,  though  the  sun  was 
fierce,  -no  one  seemed  fatigued.  For  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  pointing 
out  detached  beauties  which  escaped  an  ordinary  eye  was  con- 
tagious. He  did  not  talk  as  talks  the  poet  or  the  painter  ;  but  a£ 
some  lovely  effect  of  light  among  the*  tremulous  leaves,  some  sud- 
den glimpse  of  a  sportive  rivulet  below,  he  would  halt,  point  it  out. 
to  us  in  silence,  and  with  a  kind  of  childlike  ecstacy  in  his  own 
bright  face,  that  seemed  to  reflect  the  life  and  the  bliss  of  the 
blithe  summer-day  itself. 

Thus  seen,  all  my  doubts  in  his  dark  secret  nature  faded  away  ; 
all  my  horror,  all  my  hate;  it  was  impossible  to  resist  the  charm 
that  breathed  round  him,  not  to  feel  a  tender,  affectionate  yearning 
towards  him  as  to  some  fair  happy  child.  Well  might  he  call  him 
self  the  Darling  of  Nature.  Was  he  not  the  mysterious  likeness 
of  that/  awful  Mother,  beautiful  as  Apollo  in  one  aspect,  direful  as 
Typhon  in  another  ? 


CHAPTER   L. 


"  What  a  strange  looking  cane  you  have,  sir,"  said  a  little  girl, 
who  was  one  of  the  party,  and  who  had  entwined  her  arm  round 
Margrave's.     "  Let  me  look  at  it  1" 

"Yes,"  said  Strahan;  "that  cane,  or  rather  walking-staff,  is 
worth  looking  at.  Margrave  bought  it  in  Egypt,  and  declares  tha^. 
it  is  very  ancient." 

This  staff  seemed  constructed  from  a  reed  ;  looked  at,  it  seemed 
light,  in  the  hand  it  felt  heavy  ;  it  was  of  a  pale,  faded  yellow, 
wrought  with  black  rings  at  equal  distances,  and  graven  with  half 
obliterated  characters  that  seemed  hieroglyphic.  1  remembered  to 
have  seen  Margrave  with  it  before,  but  I  had  never  noticed  it  with 
any  attention  till  now,  when  it  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  At 
the  head  of  the  cane  there  was  a  large  unpolished  stone  of  a  dark 
blue. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  217 

*      "  Is  this  a  pebble  or  a  jewel  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  parly. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  its  name  or  nature."  said  Margrave,  "  but 
it  is  said  to  cure  the  bite  of  serpents,*  and  has  other  supposed  vir- 
tues— a  talisman,  in  short." 

He  here  placed  the  stall*  in  my  hands,  and  bade  me  look  at  it 
with  care.  Then  he  changed  the  conversation,  and  renewed  the 
way,  leaving  the  staff  with  me,  till  suddenly,  I  forced  it  back  on 
him.  I  COittld  not  have  explained  why.  but  its  touch,  as  it  warm- 
ed in  my  clasp,  seemed  to  send  through  ray  whole  frame  a  singu- 
lar I  brill,  and  a  sensation  as  if  I  no  longer  felt  my  own  weight — 
as  if  I  walked  on  air. 

Our  rambles  came  to  .a  close;  the  visitors  went  away;  I  re- 
entered the  house  through  the  sash-window  of  Forman's  study  ; 
Margrave  threw  his  hat  and  stall"  on  the  table,  and  amused  himself 
wilh  examining  minutely  the  tracery  on  the  mantlepiece.  Stratian 
and  myself  left  him  thus  occupied,  and  going  into  the  adjoining 
library,  resumed  our  task  of  examining  the  plans  for  the  new 
ho  se.  I  continued  to  draw  outlines  and  sketches  of  various  altera- 
tions tending  to  simplify  and  contract  Sir  Philip's  general  design. 
Margrave  soon  joined  us,  and.  this  time,  took  his  seat  patiently  !><•- 


*  The  fallowing  description  of  a  stone  at  Corfu,  celebrated  as  an  antidote 
to  the  venom  <>i  the  serpent's  bite,  was given  to  me  by  an  eminent  schlar  and 
legal  functionary  in  that  island  : 

"Description  of  the  Blue  Stone.— This  stone  is  of  an  oval  shape, 

one  inch  a  ml  two-tenths  long,  seven-tenths  broad,  tl  is  thick,  and,  hav- 

ing been  broken  formerly,  is  now  set  in  gold. 

"  When  ;i  pers  n  is  bitten  by  a  poisonous  snake,  the  bite  must  be 
a  lancet  or  razor  long  ways,  ami  tin1  stone  applied  within  twenty-four  hours. 

The  stone  then  attaches  itself  firmly  on  The  wound,  and  when  it  has  don< 

office  falls  off;  the  euro   is  then  complete.    The  stone  most  be  thrown  into 
milk,  whereupon  if  vomits  the  poison  it  has  absorbed,  which  remains 
on  the  top  of  the  milk,  and  the  stone  is  then  again  lit  for  use. 

"This  stone  has  been  from  time  immemorial  in  the  family  of  Ventura,  of 
Corfu,  a  house  of  Italian  origin, and  is  notorious,  so  that  peasants  immediately 
apply  for  its  aid.  Its  virtue  has  not  been  impaired  by  the  fracture.  lis  na- 
ture or  composition  is  unknown. 

"In  a  easo  where  two  wen-  stung  at  the  same  time  by  serpen;,-:,  the    stone 
applied  to  one  who  recovered,  bul  the  other,  for  whom  it  could  not,  bo 
used,  died. 

••  It  never  failed  but  once,  and  then  it  was  applied  after  the  twenty-four 
hours. 

color  is  so  dark  as  not  to  bo  distinguished  from  black. 

"  ]'.    M.   COLQUHOUN. 

"Corfu,  ?lh  N.-, 

Sir  EmersottTenni  at,  in  hie  popular  and  excellent  work  on  Ceylon,  gives 

an  account  of  "  snake  stones"  apparently  similar  to  the  one  ai  Corfu,  except 
that  thej  arc  "intensely  black  and  highly  polished,"  and  which  .-ire  applied, 
in  much  the  same  manner,  to  t  he  wounds  inflicted  by  the  cobra  Cape  1  la. 

iry — Slight  it  not  be  worth  while  to  ascertain  the  chemical  properti 

th'   e  stones,  and,  if  they  be  efiicaeioii  racti f  venom  conveyed 

by  a  bite,  might  tBey  no;  be  as  sin  pplied  to 

pella  ' 


218  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

side  our  table,  watching  me  use  ruler  and  compass  with  unwonted    ' 
attention. 

"  I  wish  I  could  draw,"  he  said,  "but  I  can  do  nothing  useful," 

"Rich  men  like  you,"  said  Strahan,  peevishly,  "  can  engage 
others,  and  are  better  employed  in  rewarding  good  artists  than  in 
making  bad  drawings  themselves." 

"  Yes,  I  can  employ  others  ;  and — Fenwick,  when  you  have 
finished  with  Strahan,  I  will  ask  permission  to  employ  you,  though 
without  reward  ;  the  task  I  wou.d  impose  will  not  take  you  a 
minute." 

He  then  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  seemed  to  fall  into 
a  dnze. 

The  dressing-bell  rang  ;  Strahan  put  away  the  plans — indeed, 
they  were  now  pretty  well  finished  and  decided  on. 

JJargrave  woke  up  as  our  host  left  the  room  to  dress,  and  draw- 
ing me  towards  another  table  in  the  room,  placed  before  me  one  of 
his  favorite  mystic  books,  and,  pointing  to  an  old  wood-cut,  said  : 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  copy  this  for  me ;  it  pretends  to  be  a  fac- 
simile of  Solomon's  famous  seal.  I  have  a  whimsical  desire  to 
have  a  copy  of  it.  You  observe  two-triangles  interlaced  and  in- 
serted in  a  circle  ?  The  pentacle,  in  shor. t.  Yes,  just  so.  You 
need  not  add  the  asirologieal  characters,  they  are  the  senseless 
superfluous  accessories  of  the  dreamer  who  wrote  the  book.  But 
the  pentacle  itself  has  an  intelligent  meaning ;  it  belongs  to  the 
only  universal  language,  the  language  of  symbol,  in  which  all  races 
that  think — around,  and  above,  and  below  us — can  establish  com- 
munion of  thought.  If  in  the  external  universe  any  one  construc- 
tive principle  can  be  detected,  it  is  the  geometrical ;  and  in  every 
part  of  the  world  in  which  magic  pretends  to  a  written  character, 
♦I  find  that  its  hieroglyphics  are  geometrical  figures.  Is  it  not 
laughable  that  the  most  positive  of  all  the  sciences  should  thus 
lend  its  angles  and  circles  lo  the  use  of— what  shall  I  call  it  1 — the 
ignorance  .' — ay,  that  is  the  word — the  ignorance  of  dealers  in 
magic !  " 

lie  took  up  the  paper  on  which  I  had  hastily  described  the 
triangles  and  the  circle,  aud  went  out  of  the  room,  chanting  the 
serpent-charmer's  song. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  '  219 


CHAPTER   LI. 

WHEN  we  separated  for  the  night,  which  we  did  at  eleven  O'clock, 
Margrave  said  : 

"  Good  night  and  good-by.  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow,  Stra- 
tum, and  before  your  usual  hour  for  rising.     I  took  tbe  liberty  of 

requesting  one  of  your  men  to  order  roe  a  chaise  from  L . 

Pardon  my  scorning  abruptness,  hut  1  always  avoid  long  leave- 
takings,  and  I  had  fixed  the  date  of  my  departure  almost  as  soon 
as  1  accepted  your  invitation." 

"  1  have  no  right  to  complain.  The  place  must  he  dull,  indeed, 
to  a  gay  young  fellow  like  you.  It  is  dull  even  to  me.  t  am 
meditating  flight  already.     Are  you  going  hack  to  L -1  " 

"Not  even  tor  such  things  as  1  left  at  my  lodging.  When  L 
settle  somewhere,  and  can  give  an  address*  I  shall  direct  them  to 
he  sent  to  me.  There  arc,  I  hear,  beautiful  patches  of  scenery  to- 
wards the  north,  only  known  to  pedestrian  tourists.  I  am  a  god 
walker;  and  you  know.  Fenwick,  thai  1  am  also  a  child  of  Na- 
ture. Adieu  to  both  ;  and  many  thanks  to  you.  Strahan,  for  your 
hospitality." 

He  left  the  room. 

•'  1  am  not  sorry  he  is  going."  said  Strahan,  after  a  pause,  and 
with  a  quick  breath  as  if  of  relief.  "  Do  you  not  think  that,  he 
exhausts  one.'  An  excess  of  oxygen,  as  you  would  say  in  a 
lecture 

1  was  alone  in  my  own  chamber  ;  I  felt. indisposed  for  bed  and 
for  sleep  ;  the  curious  conversation  I  had  held  with  Margrave 
weighed  on  me.  in  that  conversation,  we  had  indirect  !y  touched 
upon  the  prodigies  which  I  had  not  brought  myself  to  speak  of 
with  frau:;  courage,  and  certainly  nothing  in  Margrave's  manner 
had  betrayed  consciousness  of  my  suspicions  ;  on  the  contrary,  the 
open  frankness  will)  which  he  evinced  his  predilection  for  mystic 
speculation,  or  uttered  his  more  unamiahle  sentiments,  rather 
tended  to  disarm  than  encourage  belief  in  gloomy  secrets  or  sinister 
powers.     And  he  was  about  to  quit  the  neighborhood,  lie  would  not 

again  see  Lilian,  not  even  enter   the   town  of  L- .      Was  1  to 

ascribe  this  relief  from  his  presence  to  the  promise  of  the  Shadow, 
or  was  I  not  rather  right  in  battling  firmly  against  any  grotesque 
illusion  and  acceping  his  departure  as  a  simple  proof  that  my 
jealous  fears  had  been  amongst  my  ol  her  chimeras,  and  that  he 
had  really  only  visited  Lilian  out  oi' friendship  to  me.  in  my  peril, 
so  he  might  with  his  characteristic  acuteness,  have  guessed  my 
jealousy,  and  ceased  his  visits  from  a  kindly  motive  delicately  con 


220  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

cealed  1    And  might  not  the  same  motive  now  have  dictated  the 

words  which  were  intended  to  assure  me  that  L contained,  no 

attractions  to  tempt  him  to  return  to  it  1  Thus  gradually  soothed 
and  cheered  by  the  course  to  which  my  reflections  led  me,  I  con- 
tinued to  muse  for  hours.  At  length,  looking  at  my  watch,  I  was 
surprised  to  find  it  was  the  second  hour  after  midnight.  I  was  just- 
about  to  rise  from  my  chair  to  undress,  and  secure  some  hours  of 
sleep,  when  the  well-remembered  cold  wind  passed  through  the 
room,  stirring  the  roots  of  my  hair,  and  before  me  stood,  against 
the  wall,  the, Luminous  Shadow. 

"  Rise,  and  follow  me,"  said  the  voice,  sounding  much  nearer  to 
me  than  it  had  ever  done  before. 
And  at  these  words  I  rose  mechanically,  and  like  a  sleep-walker. 
♦'Take  up  the  light." 
I  took  it. 

The  Scin-Lseca  glided  along  the  wall  toward  the  threshold,  and 
motioned  to  me  to  open  the  door.  I  did  so.  The  Shadow  flitted 
on  through  the  corridor.  1  followed,  with  hushed  footsteps,  down 
a  small  stair  into  Formatvs  study.  In  all  my  subsequent  proceed- 
ings, about  to  be  narrated,  the  Shadow  guided  me,  sometimes  by 
voice,  sometimes  by  sign.  I  obeyed  the  guidance  not  only  unre- 
sistingly, but  without  a  desire  to  resist.  I  was  unconscious  either  of 
curiosity  or  of  awe — only  of  a  calm  and  passive  indifference,  neither 
pleasurable  nor  painful.  In  this  obedience,  from  which  all  will 
seemed  extracted,  I  took  into  my  hands  the  staff' which  1  had  ex- 
amined the  day  before,  and  which  lay  on  the  table,  just  where 
Margrave  had  cast  it  on  reentering  the  house.  I  unclosed  the  shut- 
ter to  the  casement,  lifted  the  sash,  and,  with  the  light  in  my  left 
hand,  the  staff'  in  my  right,  stepped  forth  into  the  garden.  The 
night  was  still  ;  the  flame  of  the  candle  scarcely  trembled  in  the 
air  ;  the  Shadow  moved,  on  before  me  towards  the  old  pavilion  de- 
scribed in  an  earlier  part  of  this  narrative,  and  of  winch  the  mould- 
ering doors  stood  wide  open.  1  followed  the  Shadow  into,  the 
pavilion,  up  the  crazy  stair  to  the  room  above,  with  its  four  great 
blank,  onglazed  windows,  or  rather  arcades,  north,  south,  east,  and 
west.  1  halted  on  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Right  before  my  eyes, 
through  the  vista  made  by  breathless  boughs,  stood  out  from 
the  moonlit  air  the  dreary  mausoleum.  Then,  at  the  command 
conveyed  to  me,  I  placed  the  candle  on  a  wooden  settle,  touched  a 
spring  in  the  handle  of  the  staff,  a  lid  flew  back,  and  I  drew  from 
the  hollow,  first  a  lump  of  some  dark  bituminous  substance,  next  a 
small  slender  wand,  of  polished  steel,  of  which  the  point  was  tipped 
with  a  translucent  material  which  appeared  to  mo  like  crystal. — 
Bending  down,  still  obedient  to  the  direction  conveyed  to  me,  I 
described  on  the  floor  with  the  lump  of  bitumen  (if  I  may  so  call 
it)  the  figure  of  the  pentacle  with  the  interlaced  triangles,  in  a 
circle  nine  feet  in  diameter,  just  as  I  had  drawn  it  for  Margrave 
the  evening  before.  The  material  used  made  the  figure  perceptible, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  '22 J 

in  a  dark  color  of  mingled  black  and  red.  I  applied  the  flame  of 
the  candle  to  the  circle,  and  immediately  it  became  lambent  with 
a  low  steady  splendor  that  rose  about  an  inch  from  the  floor,  ajid 
gradually  from  this  light  there  emanated  a  soft   grey  transparent 

mist  and  a  faint  but  exquisite  odor.  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
circle,  and  within  the  circle  also,  close  by  my  side,  stood  the  Scin- 
Lseca;  no  longer  reflected  on  the  wall,  but  apart  from  it.  erect, 
rounded  into  more  integral  and  distinct  form,  yet  impalpable,  am! 
from  it  there  breathed  an  icy  air.  Then  lifting  the  wand,  the 
broader  end  of  which  rested  in  the  palm  of  my  band,  the  two  fore- 
fingers closing  lightly  over  it  in  a  line  parallel  with  the  point,  i 
directed  it  towards  the  wide  aperture  before  me.  fronting  the  mau- 
soleum. J  repeated  aloud  some  words  whispered  to  me  in  a 
language  L  knew  not  :  those  words  I  would  not  trace  on  this  paper 
could  1  remember  them.  As  they  came  to  a  close,  1  heard  a  howl 
from  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard — a  dismal,  lugubrious  howl.  Other 
dogs  in  the  distant  village  caught    up  the  sound,  and  bayed  in  a 

like  chorus;  and  i,he  howling  went  on,  louder  and  louder. — 
Again  strange  words  were  whispered  to  me,  and  I  repeated  them 
in  mechanical  submission  ;  ami  when  they,  too,  were  ended,  I  felt 
the  ground  tremble  beneath  me,  and  as  my  eyes  looked  straight 
forward  down  the  vista,  that,  stretching  from  the  casement,  was 
bounded  by  the  solitary  mausoleum,  vague  formless  shadows  seem- 
ed to  pass  across  the  moonlight — below,  along  the  sward — above, 
in  the  air:  and  then  suddenly  a  terror,  not  before,  conceived,  came 
upon  me. 

nd  a  third  tame  words  were  whispered  ;  but  though  I  knew  no 
more  of  their  meaning  than  I  did  of  those  that  had  preceded  them. 

;;  repugnance  to  utter  them  aloud.     Mutely  1  turned  towards 
the  Scin-Laeca,  and  the  expression  of  its  face  was  menacing  and 
my  will  became  yet  more  compelled  to  the  control  im- 
i  upon  it,  and  my  lips  commenced  the  formula  again  whispi  red 
into  my  ear,  when   I  heard  distinctly  a  voice  of  warning  and  of' 
lish,    that    murmured  "Hold !"      I    knew  the  voice;   it  was 
Lilian's.     1  paused — 1  turned  towards  the  quarter  from  which  the 
voice  had  come,  and  in  tin'  space  afar  I  saw  the.  features,  the  form 
of  Lilian.     Her  aims  were  stretched  towards  me  in  supplication, 
her  countenance  was  deadly  pale  and  anxious  with  unutterable  dis- 
tress.    The  whole  image  seemed  in   unison  with   the  voice; — the 
look,  the  attitude,  gesture,  of  cue  who  sees  another  in  deadly  peril, 
and  cries  "  Beware  !" 

Tiiis  apparition  vanished  in  a  moment ;  but  that  moment  sufficed 
to  free  my  mind  from  the  constraint  which  had  before  enslaved  it. 
I  dashed  ihe  wand  to  the  ground,  sprang  from  the  circle,  rushed 
from  the  place.  How  1  got  into  my  own  room  I  can  remember 
not — 1  know  not  ;  1  have  at  ague  reminiscenoe  of  some  intervening 
wandering,  of  giant  trees,  of  shroud-like  moonlight,  of  the  Shining 
Shadow  and  its  angry  aspect,  of  the  blind  walls  and  iron  door  of 


2 22  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

the  House  of  the  Dead,  of  spectral  images — a  confused  and  dreary 
phantasmagoria.  But  all  I  'can  call  with  distinctness  is  the 
sight  of  my  own  hueless  face  in  the  mirror  in  my  own  still  room, 
by  the  light  of  the  white  moon  through  the  window ;  and  sinking 
down,  J  said  to  myself,  "  This,  at  least,  is  an  hallucination  or  a 
dream  !" 


CHAPTER  LIT 


A  heavy  sleep  came  over  me  at  daybreak,  but  I  did  not  undress 
nor  go  to  bed.  The. sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when,  on  waking, 
1  saw  the  servant,  who  had  attended  me,  bustling  about  the  room. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  srr,  I  am  afraid  I  disturbed  you  ;  but  I  have 
been  three  times  to  see  if  you  were  not  coming  down,  and  found 
you  so  soundly  -asleep  I  did  not  like  to  wake  you.  Mr.  Strahan 
lias  finished  breakfast,  and  gone  out  riding;,  Mr.  Margrave  has 
left — left  before  six  o'clock." 

"  Ah,  he  said  he  was  going  early." 

"  Yes  sir;  and  he  seemed  so  cross  when  he  went.  I  could  never 
have  supposed  so  pleasant  a  gentleman  could  have  put  himself  into 
such  a  passion  !" 

"  What  was- the  matter?" 

"Why,  his  walking-stick  could  not  be  found  ;  it  was  not  in  the 
hall.  lie  said  he  had  left'  it  in  the  study  ;  we  could  not  find  it 
there.  At  last  he  found  it  himself  in  the  old  summer-house,  and 
said — I  beg  pardon,  he  said — '  he  was  sure  you  had  taken  it  there  ; 
that,  some  one,  at  all  events,  had  been  meddling  with  it.'  How- 
ever, 1  am  very  glad  it  was  found,  since  he  seemed  to  set  such 
store  on  it," 

"  Did  Mr.  Margrave  go  himself  into  the  summer-house  to  look 
for  it  V 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  no  one  else  would  have  thought  of  such  a  place ;  no 
one  likes  to  go  there  even  in  the  davtime." 

'■  Why  V 

"  Why,  sir,  they  say  it  is  haunted  since  poor  Sir  Philip's  death  ; 
and,  indeed,  there  are  strange  noises  in  every  part  of  the  house.  I 
am  afraid  you  had  a  bad  night,  sir,"  continued  the  servant,  with 
evident  curiosity  glancing  towards  the  bed.  which  I  had  not  pressed, 
and  towards  the  evening  dress,  which,  while  he  spoke,  I  was  rap- 
idly changing  for  that  which  I  habitually  wore  in  the  morning. — 
"  1  hope  you  did  not  feel  yourself  ill  V 

"  No  ;  but  it  seems  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair." 

"  Did  you  hear,  sir,  how  the  dogs  howled  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning.     They  woke  me.     Very  frightful !" 

"  The  moon  was  at  her  full.    Dogs  will  bay  the  moon." 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  823 

I  felt  relieved  to  think  that  1  should  not  find  Strahan  in  the 
breakfast-room,  and  hastening  through  the  ceremony  of  a  meal 
which  I  scarcely  touched,  1  went  out  into  the  park  unobserved,  and 
creeping  round  the  copses  and  into  the  neglected  garden,  made  my 
way  to  the.pavilion.  1  mounted  the  stairs — I  looked  on  the  floor 
of  the  upper  room  ;  yes,  there,  still  was  the  black  figure  of  the 
pentacle — the  circle.  So,  then,  it  was  not  a  dream  !  Till  then  1 
had  doubted.  Or  might  it  not  still  be  so  far  a  dream,  that  I  had 
walked  in  my  sleep,  and,  with  an  imagination  preoccupied  by  my 
conversations  with  Margrave — by  the  hieroglyphics  on  the  staff  1 
had  handled,  by  the  very  figure  associated  with  superstitious  prac- 
tices which  J  had  copied  from  some  weird  book  at  his  request,  h\ 
all  the  strange  impressions  previously  stamped  on  my  mind — might 
i  not,  in  truth,  have  carried  th.it her  in  sleep  the  staff,  described 
the  circle,  and  all  the  rest  been  but  visionary  delusion  (  Surdy — 
surely,  so  common  sense  and  so  Julius  Paber  would  interpret  the 
riddles  thai  perplexed  me.  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  first  thought 
was  to  efface  the  marks  on  the  floor.  1  found  this  easier  than  1 
had  ventured  to  hope.  I  rubbed  the  circle  and  (he  pentacle  away 
from  the  hoards  with  ihe  sole  of  my  loot,  leaving  but  an  uudis- 
tinguishablc  smudge  behind.  1  know  not  why,  but  I  fell  the  more 
nervously  anxious  to  remove  ail  such  evidences  of  my  nocturnal 
visit  to  that  room,  because  .Margrave  had  so  openly  gone  thither 
In  Beek  for  the  staff,  and  had  so  rudely  named  me  to  the  servant  as 
having  meddled  with  it.  Might  he  not  awake  some  suspicion 
against  niel     Suspicion,  of  "what?     I  knew  not,  but  I  feared! 

The  healthful  air  of  day  gradually  nerved  my  spirits  and  relieved 
my  thoughts.      But  the  place  had  become  hateful  to  inc.     1  resolved 

not  to  wait  for  Strahan's  return,  but   to  walk  back  to  L ,  and 

leave  a  message  for  my  host.  It  was  sufficient  excuse  that  1  could 
not  longer  absent  myself  from  my  patients;  accordingly,  i  gave 
directions  to  have  a  few  things  which    I   had  brought  with  me  sent 

to  my  house  by  any  servant  who  might  be  going  to  L ,  and 

was  soon  pleased  to  find  myself  outside  the  park  gates  and  on  the 
high  road. 

1  had  not  gone  a  mile  before  1  met  Strahan  on  horseback.  He 
received  my  apologies  for  not  waiting  his  return  to  bid  him  fare- 
well, without  observation,  and,  dismounting,  led  his  horse  and 
walked  beside  me  on  my  road.  1  saw  that  there  was  something  on 
his  mind;   at  hist  he  said,  looking  down, 

'•  Did  you  hear  the  dogs  howl  last  night  \" 

-  \  «  s  !   the  full  moon  !" 

"  You  were  awake,  then,  at  the  time.  Did  yon  hear  any  other 
sound  '.     Did  you  see  anything?" 

"  What  should  1  hear  or  si 

Strahan  was  silent  for  some  moments;  then  he  said,  with 
great  seriousn  . 

"  I  could  not  sleep  when  I  went  to  bed  last  night;  I  felt  feverish 


224  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

and  restless.  Somehow  or  other,  Margrave  got  into  my  head, 
mixed  up  in  a  strange  way,  with  Sir  Philip  Derval.  I  heard  the 
dogs  howl,  and  at  the  same  time,  or  rather  a  few  minutes  later,  I 
felt  the  whole  house  tremble,  as  a  frail  corner  house  in  London 
seems  to  tremble  at  night  when  a  carriage  is  driven  past  it.  The 
howling  had  then  ceased,  and  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
I  felt  a  vague  superstitious  alarm  ;  I  got  up,  and  went  to  my 
window,  which  was  unclosed  (it  is  my  habit  to  sleep  with  my 
windows  open) — the  moon  was  very  bright — and  I  saw,  I  de- 
clare I  saw.  along  the  green  valley  that  leads  from  the  old  part  of 
the  house  to  the  mausoleum — Xo,  I  will  not  say  what  I  saw  or  be- 
lieved 1  saw — you  would  ridicule  me,  and  justly.  But,  whatever 
ir  might  be,  on  the  earth  without  or  in  the  fancy  within  my  brain, 
so  terrified,  that  I  rushed  back  to  my  bed,  and  buried  my 
faee  in  my  pillow.  I  would  have  come  to  you ;  but  I  did  not 
dare  to  stir.  I  have  been  riding  hard  all  the  morning  in  order 
to  recover  my  nerves.  But  I  dread  sleeping  again  under  that 
roof,  and  now  that  you  and  Margrave  leave  me,  I  shall  go  this 
very  day  to  London.  I  hope  all  that  I  have  told  you  is  no  bad 
sign  of  coming  disease  ;  blood  to  the  head,  eh  ?" 

"No;  but,  imagination  overstrained  can  produce  wondrous  ef- 
fects. You  do  right  to  change  the  scene.  Go  to  London  at  once, 
amuse  yourself,  and -" 

'•  Not  return  till  the  old  house  is  razed  to  the  ground.  That  is 
my  resolve.  You  approve  ?  That's  well.  All  success  to  you, 
Fenwick.  I  will  canter  back,  and  get  my  portmanteau  ready  and 
the  carriage  out  in  lime  for  the  five  o'clock  I  rain." 

So,  then,  he,  too,  had  seen — what?  I  did  not  dare  and  did  not 
desire  to  ask  him.  But  he,  at  least.,  was  not  walking  in  his  sleep  ! 
Did  we  both  dream,  or  neither? 


CHAPTER  LIII. 


There  is  an  instance  of  the  absorbing  tyranny  of  every  day 
life  which  must  have  struck  all  such  of  my  readers  as  have  ever 
experienced  one  of  those  portents  which  are  so  at  variance  with 
every-day  life,  that  the  ordinary  epithet  bestowed  on  them  is 
"  supernatural." 

And  be  my  readers  few  or  many,  there  will  be  no  small  propor- 
tion of  them  to  whom,  at  once,  at  least,  in  the  course  of  their  ex- 
istence, a  something  strange  and  cirie  has  occurred — a  something 
•which  perplexed  and  baffled  rational  conjecture,  and  struck  on 
those  chords  which  vibrate  to  superstition.    It  may  have  been  only 


A    S'l'KA.N'UE    STORY.  226 

a  dream  unaccountably  verified,  an  undefiuable  presentiment  or 
forewarning;  hut  up  from  such  slighter  and  vaguer  tokens  01  the 
realm  of  marvel  —  up  to  the  portents  of  ghastly  apparitions  or 
haunted  chambers,  I  believe  that  the  greater  number  of  persons 
arrived  at  middle  age,  however  instructed  the  class,  however 
civilized  the  land,  however  sceptical  the  period,  to  which  they 
belong,  have  either  in  themselves  experienced,  or  heard  recorded 
by  intimate  associates  whose  veracity  they  accept  as  indisputa- 
ble in  all  ordinary  transactions  of  life — phenomena  which  are  not 
to  be  solved  by  the  wit  that  mocks  them,  nor.  perhaps,  always 
and  entirely  to  the  contentment  of  the  reason  or  the  philosophy 
that  explains  them  away.  Such  phenomena.  1  say,  are  infinitely 
more  numerous  than  would  appear  from  the  instances  currently 
quoted  and  dismissed  with  a  jest,  for  few  of  those  who  have  wit- 
nessed them  are  disposed  to  own  it,  and  they  who  only  hear  of 
them  through  others,  however  trustworthy,  would  not  impugn  their 
character  for  common  sense  by  professing  a  belief  to  which  com- 
mon sense  is  a  merciless  persecutor.  But  he  who  reads  my  asser- 
tion in  the  quiet  of  his  own  room  will,  perhaps,  pause,  ransack  his 
memory,  and  find  there  in  some  dark  corner  which  lie  excludes 
from  "the  babbling  and  remorseless  day,"  a  pale  recollection  that 
proves  the  assertion  iw>t  untrue. 

And  it  is,  1  say.  an  instance  of  the  absorbing  tyranny  of  every- 
day life  thai  wlfcmever  some  such  startling  incident  disturbs  ita 
regular  tenor  of  thought  and  occupation,  that  same  everyday  life 
hastens  to  bury  in  its  sands  the  object  which  has  troubled  its  sur- 
face; the  more  unaccountable,  the  more  prodigious  has  been  the 
phenomenon  which  has  scared  and  astounded  us;  the  more,  with 
involuntary  effort,  the  mind  sce'.s  to  rid  itself  of  an  enigma  which 
might  disease  the  reason  that  tries  to  solve  it,  We  go  about 
our  mundane  business  with  renewed  avidity  ;  we  feel  the  necessity 
of  proving  to  ourselves  that  we  are  still  sober  practical  men,  and 
refuse  io  he  unfitted  for  the  world  which  we  know,  by  unsolicited 
Visitations  from  worlds  into  which  every  glimpse  is  soon  lost  amid 
shadifws.  And  it  amazes  us  to  think  how  soon  such  incidents, 
though  not  actually  forgotten,  though  they  can  be  recalled — and 
recalled  .too  vividly  for  health — at  our  will. are,  nevertheless,  thrust 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  mind's  sight,  as  we  cast  into  lumher-rooms 
the  crutches  and  splints  that  remind  us  of  a  broken  limb  which  has 
recovered  its  strength  and  tone.  It  is  a  felicitous  peculiarity  in  our 
organization,  which  all  members  of  my  profession'will  have  noticed. 
bow  soon,  when  a  bodily  pain  is  once  past,  it  becomes  erased  from 
the  recollection,  how  soon,  and  how  invariably  the  mind  refuses  to 
linger  over  and  recall  it.  No  man  freed  an  hour  before  from  a  ra- 
ging toothache,  the  rack  of  a  neqralgia,  seats  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair to  reei, lied  and  ponder  upon  the  anguish  he  has  undergone. 
It  is  l  In-  same  with  certain  afflictions  of  the  mind — not  with  those 
that  strike  on  our  affections,  or  blast  our  fortunes,  overshadowing 
15 


226  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

our  whole  future  with  a  sense  of  loss — but  where  a  trouble  or  ca- 
lamity has  been  an  accident,  and  episode  in  our  wonted  life,  where 
it  affects  ourselves  alone,  where  it  is  attended  with  a  sense  of  shame 
and  humiliation,  where  the  pain  of  recalling  it  seems  idle,  and  if 
indulged  would  almost  madden  us  ;  agonies  of  that  kind  we  do  not 
brood  over  as  we  do  over  the  death  or  falsehood  of  beloved  friends, 
or  the  train  of  events  by  which  we  are  reduced  from  wealth  to 
penury.  No  one,  for  instance,  who  has  escaped  from  a  shipwreck, 
from  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  from  the  jaws  of  a  tiger,  spends 
his  days  and  nights  in  reviving  his  terrors  past,  re-imagining  dan- 
gers not  to  occur  again,  or,  if  they  do  occur,  from  which  the  ex- 
perience undergone  cau  suggest  no  additional  safeguards.  The 
current  of  our  life,  indeed,  like  that  of  the  rivers,  is  most  rapid  in 
the  midmost  channel,  where  all  streams  are  alike,  comparatively 
slow  in  the  depth  and  along  the  shores  in  which  each  life,  as  each 
river,  has  a  character  peculiar  to  itself.  And  hence,  those  who 
would  sail  with  the  tide  of  the  world,  as  those  who  sail  with  the 
tide  of  a  river,  hasten  to  take  the  middle  of  the  stream,  as  those 
who  sail  against  the  tide  are  found  clinging  to  the  shore.  I  re- 
turned to  my  habitual  duties  and  avocations  with  renewed  energy  ; 
I  did  not  suffer  my  thoughts  to  dwell  on  the  dreary  wonders  that 
had  haunted  me,  from  the  evening  I  first  met  Sir  Philip  Derval  to 
the  morning  in  which  I  had  quitted  the  house  of  his  heir  ;  whether 
realities  or  hallucinations,  no  guess  of  mine  coufd  unravel  such 
marvels,  and  no  prudence  of  mine  guard  me  against  their  repeti- 
tion. But  I  had  no  fear  that  they  would  be  repeated,  any  more 
than  the  man  who  has  gone  through  shipwreck,  or  the  hairbreadth 
escape  from  a  fall  down  a  glacier,  fears  again  to  be  found  in  a  simi- 
lar peril.  Margrave  had  departed,  whither  I  knew  not,  and,  with 
his  departure,  ceased  all  sense  of  his  influence.  A  certain  calm 
within  me,  a  tranquilizing  feeling  of  relief,  seemed  to  me  like  a 
pledge  of  permanent  delivery. 

But  that  which  did  accompany  and  haunt  me  through  all  my 
occupations  and  pursuits,  was  the  melancholy  remembrance  of 
the  love  I  had  lost  in  Lilian.  I  heard  from  Mrs.  Ashleigli,  who 
still  frequently  visited  me,  that  her  daughter  seemed  much  in  the 
same  quiet  state  of  mind — perfectly  reconciled  to  our  separation — 
seldom  mentioning  my  name — if  mentioning  it,  with  indifference  ; 
the  only  thing  remarkable  in  her  state  was  her  aversion  to  all  so- 
ciety, and  a  kind  of  lethargy  that  would  come  over  her,  often  in 
the  daytime.  She  would  suddenly  fall  into  sleep,  and  so  remain 
for  hours,  but  a  sleep  that  seemed  very  serene  and  tranquil,  and 
from  which  she  woke  of  herself.  She  kept  much  within  her  own 
room,  and  always  retired  to  it  when  visitors  were  announced. 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  b*egan  reluctantly  to  relinquish  the  persuasion  she 
had  so  long  and  so  obstinately  maintained  that  this  state  of  feel- 
ing toward  myself — and,  indeed,  this  general  change  in  Lilian — 
was  but  temporary  and  abnormal ;  she  began  to  allow  that  it  was 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  227 

best  to  drop  all  thoughts  of  a  renewed  engagement — a  future 
anion.  I  proposed  to  see  Lilian  in  her  presence  and  in  my  profes- 
sional capacity ;  perhaps  some  physical  cause,  especially  for  this 
lethargy,  might  be  detected  and  removed.  Mrs.  Ashleigh  owned 
to  me  that  the  idea  occurred  to  herself;  she  had  sounded  Lilian 
upon  it  ;  bid  her  daughter  had  so  resolutely  opposed  it ;  had  said 
With  so  quiet  a  firmness,  "that  all  being  over  between  US,  a  visit 
from  me  would  be  unwelcome  and  painful ;"  that  Mrs.  Ashleigh 
felt  that  an  interview  thus  deprecated  would  only  confirm  estrange- 
ment. One  day,  in  calling,  she  asked  my  advice  whether  it  would 
not  he  better  to  try  the  effect  of  change  of  air  and  scene,  and,  in 
some  other  place,  some  other  medical  opinion  might  be  lakeu  !  I 
approved  of  this  suggestion  with  unspeakable  sadness. 

"And,"  said  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  shedding  tears,  "if  that  experi- 
ment prove  unsuccessful,  1  will  write  and  let  you  know  ;  and  we 
must,  then  consider  what  to  say  to  the  world  as  a  reason  why  the 
marriage  is  broken  oft*.     I  can  render  this  more  easy  by  staying 

away.     I  will  not  return  to  L till  the  matter  has  ceased  to  be 

the  topic  of  talk,  and  at  a  distance  any  excuse  will  be  less  ques- 
tioned and  seem  more  natural.     Bui  still — still — let  us  iiope  still." 

"  Have  you  one  ground  fur  hope  1" 

"  Perhaps  so;  but  you  will  think  it  very  frail  and  fallacious." 

"Name  it,  and  let  me  judge;" 

••  <  hie  nighl — in  which  you  were  on  a  visit  to  Derval   Court — " 

"Ay,  that  night." 

"Lilian  woke  me  by  a  loud  cry  (she  sleeps  in  the  next  room  to 
me,  and  the  door  was  left  open)  ;  I  hastened  to  her  bedside  in 
alarm  ;  she  was  asleep,  but  appeared  extremely  agitated  and  con- 
vulsed. She  kepi  calling  on  your  name  in  a  tone  of  passionate 
fondness,  but  as  if  in  great  terror.  She  cried,  'Do  not  go, 
Allen! — donotrgo! — you  know  not  what  you  brave! — what  you 
do!'  Then  she  rose  in  her  bed,  clasping  her  hands.  Her  face 
was  set  and  rigid  ;  I  tried  to  awake  her,  but  could  not.  After  a 
little  time,  she  breathed  a  iW"^  sigh,  and  murmured,  '  Allen,  Allen  ! 
dear  love  !  did  you  not  hear.' — did  you  not.  see  me  ]  What  could 
thus  baffle  matter  and  traverse  space  but  love  and  soul?  Canyon 
still  doubt  me,  Allen  ?  Doubt  that  I  love  yon  now,  shall  love  you 
evermore  '  Yonder,  yonder,  as  here  below  .'"  She  then  sank  back 
on  her  pillow,  weeping,  and  then  1  woke  her." 

"   Vnd  what  did  she  say  on  Waking  .'" 

"  She  did  not  remember  what  she  had  dreamed,  except   that    s\\i- 
had  passed  through  some  great   terror — but   added  with  a  \ 
smile.  '  It  is  over,  and  1  fee]  happy  imw.'     Then  she  turned  round, 
and  fell   asleep  again,  but    quietly  as   a   child,  the  tears  dried,   the 
smile  resting." 

"Go,  my  dear  friend,  go;  take  Lilian  away  from  this  place,  as 
soon  as  you  can  :  divert  her  mind  with  fresh  scenes.  1  hope! — I 
do  hope  !     Let  me  know  where  you  fix  yourself.     I  will  seize  a 


228  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

holiday — I  need  one ;  I  will  arrange  as  to  my  patients — I  will 
come  to  the  same  place  ;  she  need  not  know  of  it — but  I  must  be 
by  to  watch,  to  hear  your  news  of  her.  Heaven  bless  you  for  what 
you  have  said  !     I  hope  ! — I  do  hope !" 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


Some  days  after,  I  received  a  few  lines  from  Mrs.  Ashleigh. — 
Her  arrangements  for  departure  were  made.  They  were  to  start 
the  next  morning.  She  had  fixed  on  going  into  the  north  of  De- 
vonshire, and  staying  some  week  either  at  Ilffacombe  or  Lynton, 
whichever  place  Lilian  preferred.  She  would  write  as  soon  as 
they  were  settled. 

I  was  up  at  my  usual  early  hour  the  next  morning.  I  resolved 
to  go  out  towards  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  house,  and  watch,  unnoticed, 
where  I  might,  perhaps,  catch  a  glimpse  of  Lilian  as  the  carriage 
that  would  convey  her  to  the  railway  passed  my  hiding-place. 

I  was  looking  impatiently  at  the  clock  ;  it  was  yet  two  hours 
before  the  train  by  which  Mrs.  Ashleigh  proposed  to  leave.  A 
hud  ring  at  my  bell ;  I  opened  the  door.  Mrs.  Ashleigh  rushed 
in,  falling  on  my  breast. 

"  Lilian  !  Lilian!" 

"  Heavens  !     What  has  happened  1 " 

"  She  has  left — she  is  gone — gone  away  !  Oh,  Allen !  how  ? — 
whither  1    Advise  me.     What  is  to  be  done  V 

"  Come  in — compose  yourself — tell  me  all — clearly,  quickly. 
Lilian  gone  '(  gone  away  1  Impossible  !  She  must  be  hid  some- 
where in  the  house — the  garden  ;  she,  perhaps,  did  not  like  the 
journey.  She  may  have  crept  away  to  some  young  friend's  house. 
But  /talk  when  you  should  talk  :  tell  me  all." 

Little  enough  to  tell !  Lilian  had  seemed  unusually  cheertul 
the  night  before,  and  pleased  at  the  thought  of  the  excursion. — 
Mother  and  daughter  retired  to  rest  early  :  Mrs.  Ashleigh  saw 
Lilian  sleeping  quietly  before  she  herself  went  to  bed.  She  woke 
betimes  in  the  morning,  dressed  herself,  went  into  .the  next  room 
to  call  Lilian — Lilian  was  not  there.  No  suspicion  of  flight  oc- 
curred to  her.  Perhaps  her  daughter  might  be  up  already,  and 
gone  down  stairs,  remembering  something  she  might  wish  to  pack 
and  take  with  her  on  the  journey.  Mrs.  Ashleigh  was  confirmed 
in  this  idea  when  she  noticed  that  her  own  room  door  was  left 
open.  She  went  down  stairs,  met  a  maid-servant  in  the  hall,  who 
told  her,  with  alarm  and  surprise,  that  both  the  street  and  garden 
doors  were  found  unclosed.  No  one  had  seen  Lilian.  Mrs.  Ash- 
leigh now  became  seriously  uneasy.     On  remounting  to  her  daugh- 


•  A   STRANGE    STORY.  229 

ters  room,  she  missed  Lilian's  bonnet  and  mantle.  The  house 
•  and  garden  were  both  searched  in  vain.  There  cou'd  be  no  doubt 
that  Lilian  had  gone — must  have  stolen  noiselessly  at  night 
through  her  mother's  room,  and  let  herself  out  of  the  house  and 
through  the  garden. 

"Do  you  think  she  could  have  received  any  letter,  any  mes- 
sage, any  visitor  unknown  to  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  think  it.  Why  do  you  ask  1  Oh,  Allen,  you  do  not 
believe  there  is  any  accomplice  in  this  disappearance  !  No,  yoa 
do  not  believe  it.  But  my  child's  honor.  What  will  the  world 
think,?" 

Not  for  the  world  cared  I  at  that  moment.  I  could  think  only 
for  Lilian,  and  without  one  suspicion  that  imputed  blame  to  her. 

"  Be  quiet,  be  silent ;  perhaps  she  has  gone  on  some  visit,  and 
will  return.     Meanwhile,  leave  inquiry  to  me." 


CHAPTER  LV. 


It  seemed  incredible  that  Lilian  could  wander  far  without  being 
observed.  I  soon  ascertained  that  she  had  not  gone  away  by 
railway — by  any  public  conveyance — had  hired  no  carriage  ;  she 
must,  therefore,  be  still  in  the  town,  or  have  left  it  on  foot.  The 
greater  part  of  the  day  was  consumed  in  unsuccessful  inquiries, 
and  faint  hopes  that  she  would  return  ;  meanwhile,  the  news  of 
her  disappearance  had  spread  ;  how  could  such  news  fail  to  do  so  ? 

An  acquaintance  of  mine  met  me  under  the  archway  of  Monks' 
Gate.  He  wrung  my  hand,  and  looked  at  me  with  great  compas- 
sion. 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  "  that  we  were  all  deceived  in  that  young 
Margrave.  He  seemed  so  well  conducted  in  spite  of  his  lively 
manners.     But " 

"  But  what  .'" 

"  Mrs.  Ashleigh  was,  perhaps,  imprudent  to  admit  him  into  her 
house  so  familiarly.  He  was  certainly  very  handsome.  Young 
ladies  will  be  romantic." 

"  How  dare  you,  sir  !"  I  cried,  choked  with  rage.  "  And  with- 
out any  coloring  to  so  calumnious  a  suggestion  !  Margrave  has 
not  been  in  the  town  for  many  days.  No  one  knows  even  where 
he  is."' 

"  ( )  yes,  it  is  known  where  he  is.  He  wrote  to  order  the  effects 
which  lie  had  left  here  to  be  sent  to  Penrith." 

'•When?" 

"The  letter  arrived  the  day  before  yesterday.     I  happened  to 

be  calling  at  the  house  where  he  last  lodged  when  at  L ,  the 

house  opposite  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  garden.     No  doubt  the  servants  in 


230  A    STRANGE    STORY.  • 

both  houses  gossip  with  each  other.  Miss  Ashleigh  could  scarce- 
ly fail  to  hear  of  Mr.  Margrave's  address  from  her  maid  ;  and 
since  servants  will  exchange  gossip,  they  may  also  convey  letters. 
Pardon  me,  you  know  I  am  your  friend." 

"  Not  from  the  moment  you  breathe  a  word  against  my  be- 
trothed wife,"  said  I.  fiercely. 

1  wrenched  myself  from  the  clasp  of  the  man's  hand,  but, his 
worda  s'Mil  rang  in  my  ears.  I  mounted  my  horse;  I  rode  into 
the  adjoining  suburbs,  the  neighboring  villages  ;  there,  however,  I 
learned  nothing  till,  just  at  nightfall,  in  a  hamlet,  about  ten  miles 

from  L ,  a  laborer  declared  he  had  seen  a  young  lady  drjessed 

as  1  described,  who  passed  by  him  in  a  path  through  the  fields  a 
little  before  noon  ;  that  he  was  surprised  to  see  one  so  young,  so 
well  dressed,  and  a  stranger  to  the  neighborhood. (for  he  knew  by 
sight  the  ladies  of  the  few  families  scattered  round)  walking  alone; 
that  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  path  to  make  way  for  her,  he  looked 
hard  into  her  face,  and  she  did  not  heed  him — seemed  to  ^aze, 
right  before,  into  space.  If  her  expression  had  been  less  quiet* 
and  gentle,  he  should  have  thought,  he  could  scarcely  say  why, 
that  she  was  no'  quite  right  in  her  mind — there  was  a  strange  un- 
conscious stare  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were  walking  in  her  sleep. — 
Her  pace  was  very  steady — neither  quick  nor  slow.  He  had 
watched  her  till  she  passed  out  of  sight,  amidst  a  wood  through 
which  the  path  wound  its  way  to  a  village  at  some  distance. 

I  followed  up  this  clue.  I  arrived  at  the  village  to  which  my 
informant  directed  me,  but  night  had  set  in.  Mast  of  the  houses 
were  closed,  so  I  could  glean  no  further  information  from  the  cot- 
tages or  at  the  inn.  But  the  police  superintendent  of  the  district 
lived  in  the  village,  and  to  him  I  gave  instruction,  which  I  had  not 
given,  and  indeed  would  have  beeu  disinclined  to  give,  to  the  police 
at  L .  He  was  intelligent  and  kindly  ;  he  promised  to.  com- 
municate at  once  with  the  dillereut  police-stations  for  mites  round, 
and  with  all  delicacy  and  privacy.  It  was  not  probable  that  Lilian 
could  have  wandered  in  one  day  much  further  than  the  place  at 
which  1  then  was:  it  was  scarcely  to  be  conceived  that  she  could 
baffle  my  pursuit,  and  the  practised  skill  of  the  police.  I  rested 
but  a  few  hours,  at  a  small  public-house,  and  was  on  horseback 
again  at  dawn.  A  little  after  sunrise,  I  again  heard  of  the  wan- 
derer. At  a  lonely  cottage,  by  a  brick-kiln,  in  the  midst  of  a  wide 
common,  she  had  stopped  the  previous  evening,  and  asked  for  a 
draught,  of  milk.  The  woman  who  gave  it  to  her  inquired  if  she 
had  lost  her  way  1  She  said,  "  No  ;"  and  only  tarrying  a  few 
minutes,  had  gone  across  the  common  ;  and  the  woman  supposed 
she  was  a  visitor  at  a  gentleman's  house  which  was  at  the  further 
end  of  the  waste{  for  the  path  she  took  led  to  no  town,  no  village. 
It  occurred  to  me,  then,  that  Lilian  avoided  all  highroads,  all 
places  even  the  humblest,  where  men  congregated  together.  But 
where  could  she  have  passed  the  night  ?     Not  to  fatigue  the  reader 


►  A    STRANGE    STORY.  231 

with  the  fruitless  result  of  frequent-  inquiries,  I  will  but  say  that  at 
the  end  of  the  second  day  1  had  succeeded  in  ascertaining  that  I 
was  si  ill  on  her  track  :  and  though  I  had  ridden  to  and  fro  nearly 
double  the  distance — coming  hack  again  to  places  I  had  left  be- 
hind— it  was  at  the  distance  of  forty  miles  from  L that  I  last 

heard  of  her  that  second  day.     She  had  been  sitting  alone  by  a 
little  brook  only  an  hour  before.     1  was  led  to  the  very  spot  by  a 
woodman, — it  was  at  the  hour  of  twilight  when  he  beheld  her — 
she  was  leaning  her  face  on  her  hand,  and  seemed  weary.     He 
spoke  to  her;  she  did  not  answer,  but  rose,  and  resumed  her  way 
along  the  banks  of  the  streamlet.     That  night  I  put  up  at  no  inn  ; 
I  followed  the  course  of  the  brook  for  miles,  then  struck  into  every 
path  that  I  could  conceive  her  to  have  taken— in  vain.     Thus  I 
consumed  the  night  on  fool,  lying  my  horse  to  a  tree,  for  he  was 
tired  out,  and  reluming  lo  him  at  sunrise.     At  noon,  the  third  day, 
I  again  heard  of  her,  and  in  a  remote  savage  part  of  the  country. 
The    features  of  the  landscape  were  changed  ;    there  was  little 
foliage  and  little  culture,  but  the  ground  was  broken  into  mounds 
and  hollows,  and  covered  with  patches  of  heath  and  stunted  brush- 
wood.    She  had  been  seen  by  a  shepherd,  and  be  made  the  same 
observation  as  the  first  who  had  guided  me  on  the  track,  she  look- 
ed to  him  ','  like  some  one  walking  in  her  sleep."     An  hour  or  two 
later,  in  a  dell,  amongst    the  furze-bushes,  I  chanced  on  a  knot  of 
ribbon.     1  recognized  the  color  Lilian  habitually  wore;   I  felt  cer- 
tain that  the  ribbon  was  hers.     Calculating  the  utmost  speed   1 
could  ascribe  to  her,  she  could  not  be  far  off,  yet  still  I  faded  to 
discover.     The  scene  now  was  as  solitary  as  a  desert ;   1  met  no 
one  on  my  way.     At  length,  a  little  after  sunset,  I  found  myself  in 
view  of  the  sea.     A  small  town  nestled  below  the  cliffs,  on  which 
1  was  guiding  my  weary  horse.     1  entered  the  town  and  while  my 
horse  was  baiting  went  in  search  of  the  resident  policeman.     The 
information  I  had  directed  to  be  sent  round  the  country  had  reach- 
ed him  ;   he  bad  acted  on  it,  but  without  resul'.      I  was  surprised 
to  hear  him  address  me  by  name,  and  on  looking  at  him  more  nar- 
rowly 1  recognized   him  for  the  policeman  Waby.     This  yqung 
man  had  always  expressed  so  grateful  a  sense  of  my  attendance  ou 
I  is  sister,  and  had,  indeed,  so  notably  evinced  his  gratitude  in 
prosecuting  with  Margrave  the  inquiries  which  terminated  in  the 
discovery  <>t'  Sir  Philip  Derval's  murderer,  that.  I  confided  to  him 
ii;o  name  of  the  wanderer  of  which  he  had  not  been  previously  in- 
formed ;  but  which  it  would  be,  indeed,  impossible  to  conceal  from 
him  should  the  search  in  which  his  aid  was  asked  prove  success- 
ful,— as  he  knew  Miss  Ashleigli  by  sight.     His  face  immediately 
became  thoughtful      lie  paused  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  think  1  have  it,  but  1  do  not  like  to  say  ;  I  may  pain  you, 
sir." 

"Nol  by  confidence;  you  pain  me  by  concealment." 
The  man  hesitated  still  ;  1  encouraged  him,  and  then  he  R]  oka 
out  frankly. 


232  A    STRANGE    STORY.  * 

"  Sir,  did  you  never  think  it  strange  tbat  Mr.  Margrave  should 
move  from  his  handsome  rooms  in  the  hotel  to  a  somewhat  uncom- 
fnrlable  lodging,  from  the  window  of  which  he  could  look  down  on 
Mrs.  Ashleigh's  garden  ?  I  have  seen  him  at  night  in  the  balcony 
of  that  window,  and  when  I  noticed  him  going  so  frequently  into 
Mrs.  Ashleigh's  house  during  your  unjust  detention,  I  own,  sir,  I 
felt  for  you- — " 

"  Nonsense:  Mr.  Margrave  went  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  house  as  my 

friend.     He  has  left  L weeks  ago.    What  has  all  this  to  do 

with " 

"Patience,  sir;  hear  me  out.      I  was  sent  from  L to  this 

station  (on  promotion,  sir,),  a  fortnight  since,  last  Friday — for  there 
has  been  a  good  deal  of  crime  hereabouts,  it  is  a  bad  neighborhood, 
and  full  of  smugglers  ; — some  days  ago,  in  watching  quietly  near 
a  lonely  house,  of  which  the  owner  is  a  suspicious  character,  down 
in  my  books,  I  saw!  to  my  amazement,  Mr.  Margrave  come  out  of 
that  house — come  out  of  a  private  door  in  it,  which  belongs  to  a 
part  of  the  building  not  inhabited  by  the  owner,  but  which  used 
formerly,  when  the  house  was  a  sort  of  inn,  to  be  let  to  night 
lodgers  of  the  humblest  description.  I  followed  him  ;  he  went 
down  to  the  sea-shore,  walked  about,  singing  to  himself,  then  re- 
turned to  the  house,  and  reentered  by  the  same  door.  I  soon 
learned  that  he  lodged  in  the  house,  had  lodged  there  for  several 
days.  The  next  morning  a  fine  yacht  arrived  at  a  tolerably  con- 
venient creek  about  a  mile  from  the  house,  and  there  anchored. 
Sailors  came  ashore,  rambling  down  to  this  town.  The  yacht  be- 
longed to  Mr.  Margrave,  he  had  purchased  it  by  commission  in 
London.  It  is  stored  for  a  long  voyage.  He  had  directed  it  to 
Xiome  to  him  in  this  out-of-the-way  place,  where  no  gentleman's 
yacht  ever  put  in  before,  though  the  creek,  or  bay,  is  handy  enough 
for  such  craft.  Well,  sir,  is  it  not  strange  that  a  rich  young  gen- 
tleman should  come  to  this  unfrequented  sea-shore,  put  up  with 
accommodation  that  must  be  of  the  rudest  kind  in  the  house  of  a 
man  known  as  a  desperate  smuggler,  suspected  to  be  worse  1 — 
Order  a  yacht  to  meet  him  here;  is  not  all  this, strange?  But 
would  it  be  strange  if  he  were  waiting  for  a  young  lady  ?  And  if 
a  young  lady  has  fled  at  night  from  her  home,  and  has  come  secret- 
ly along  by-paths,  which  must  have  been  very  fully  explained  to 
her  beforehand,  and  is  now  near  that  young  gentleman's  lodging,  if 
not  actually  in  it,  if  this  be  so,  why,  the  affair  is  not  so  very  strange 
after  all.     And  now  do  you  forgive  me,  sir  V 

"  Where  is  this  house  ?     Lead  me,  to  it." 

"  You  can  hardly  get  to  it  except  on  foot ;  rough  walking,  sir, 
and  about  seven  miles  off  by  the  shortest  cut." 

"  Come,  at  once ;  come  quickly.  We  must  be  there  before-r-be- 
fore " 

"Before  the  young  lady  can  get  to  the  place.  Well,  from  what 
you  say  of  the  spot  in  which  she  was  last  seen,  I  think,  on  reflec- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  233 

linn,  we  may  easily  do  that.  I  am  at  your  service,  sir.  But  1 
should  warn  you  that  tiie  owners  of  the  house,  man  and  wilt',  are 
beth  of  villainous  character — would  do  anything  for  money.  Mr, 
Margrave,  no  doubt,  lias  money  enough,  and  if  the  young  lady 
chooses  io  go  away  with  Mr.  Margrave,  you  know,  I  have  no  power 
to  help  it." 

"Leave  all  that  to  me  :  all  I  ask  of  you  is  to  show  me  the 
lion; 

We  were  soon  out  of  the  town  ;  the  night  had  closed  in  ;  it  was 
very  dark  in  spite  of  a  few  stars*;  the  path  was  rugged  and  pre- 
cipitous, sometimes  skirting  the  very  brink  of  perilous  cliffs ;  some- 
lames  delving  down  to  Hie  sea-shore — there  stopped  hy  rock  or 
wave — and  painfully  rewinding  up  the  ascent. 

"  It  is  an  ugly  path,  sir,  but  it  saves  four  miles:  and  anyhow 
the  road  is  a,  had  one." 

We  came,   at   lasi,  to  a  few  wretched  fishermen's   huts.     The 

moon  bud  now  risen,  and  revealed  the  squalor  of  poverty-stricken 

ruinous  hovels  ;  a  couple  of  boats  moored  to  the  shore  ;  a  moaning* 

!  sea  :  and  at  a  disiance,  a  vessel,  with  lights  on  hoard,  lying 

■ily  siill  at  anchor  in  a  sheltered  curve  of  the  bold  rude  shore. 

The  policeman  pointed  to  the  vessel  : 

"The  yacht,  sir;  the  wind  will  be  in  her  faver  if  she  sails  to- 
night." 

We  quickened  our  pace  as  well  as  the  nature  of  the  path  would 
permit,  left  the  huts  behind  us,  and,  about  a  mile  further  on,  came 
to  a  solitary  house,  larger  than  from  the  policeman's  description  of 
Margrave's  lodgment,  1  should  have  presupposed  :  a  house  that  in 
the  wilder  parts  of  (Scotland  might  be  almost  a  laird's ;  but  even 
in  the  moonlight  it  looked  very  dilapidated  and  desolate.  Most  id' 
tiie  windows  were  (dosed,  some  with  panes  broken,  stuffed  with 
wisps  of  straw  ;  there  were  (he  remains  of  a  wall  round  the  house  : 
it  was  broken  in  some  "parts  (only  iis  foundation  left).  On  ap- 
proaching the  house,  '  observed  two  doors,  one  on  the  side  front- 
in  the  sea,  one  on  the  other  side  facing  a  patch  of  broken  ground 
thai  might  once  have  been  a  garden,  and  lay  waste  within  the  en- 
closure  of  the  ruined  wall,  encumbered  with  various  litter — heaps 
of  rubbish,  8  ruined  shed,  the  carcase  of  a  worn-out  boat.  This 
latter  door  stood  wide  open — the  other  was  closed.  The  horn- 
still  and  dark,  as  if  either  deserted  or  all  within  it  retired  to  rest. 

"I  think  that  open  door  leads  at  once  totbe  rooms  Mr.  Marg 
hires;  he  can  go  in  and  out  wiihout  disturbing  the  other  inmates. 
They  used  to  keep,  on  the   side  which    they  inhabit,    a   beer-house, 
but  the  magistrate  8hu1  it  up;  still  h  is  a  resort  for  bad  charac- 
ters.    Now,  sir,  what  shall  we  do  :'*' 

"  Watch  separately.  Von  wait,  within  the  enclosure  of  tiie  wall, 
hid  hy  those  heaps  of  rubbish  near  the  door;  none  can  enter  hut 
what  you  will  observe  them.  If  you  see  Jkt,  y«m  will  acOOSt  and 
slop  her.  and  eall  aloud  for  me  ;    1  shall  be  in   hearing.     I   will  go 


234  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

back  to  the  high  part  of  the  ground  yonder,  it  seems  to  me  that 
she  must  pass  that  way  ;  and  I  would  desire,  if  possible,  to  save 
her  from  the  humiliation,  the — the  shame  of  coming  within  the 
precincts  of  that  man's  abode.  I  feel  I  may  trust  you  now  and 
hereafter.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  the  happiness  and  honor  of  this 
poor  young  lady  and  her  mother,  that  I  may  be  able  to  declare  that 
I  did  not  take  her  from  that  man,  from  any  man — from  that  house, 
from  any  house.  You  comprehend  me,  and  will  obey  ?  I  speak  to 
you  as  a  confidant — a  friend." 

14 1  thank  you  with  my  whole  heart,  sir,  for  so  doing.  You 
saved  my  sister's  life,  and  the  least  I  can  do  is  to  keep  secret  all 
that  would  pain  your  life  if  blabbed  abroad.  I  know  what  mis- 
chief folks'  tongues  can  make.  I  will  wait  by  the  door,  neverfear, 
and  will  rather  lose  my  place  than  not  strain  all  the  legal  power  I 
possess  to  keep  the  young  lady  back  from  sorrow." 

This  dialogue  was  interchanged  in  close  hurried  whisper  behind 
the  broken  wall,  and  out  of  all  hearing.  Waby  now  crept  through 
a  wide  gap  into  the  enclosure,  and  nestled  himself  silently  amidst 
the  wrecks  of.  the  broken  boat,  not  six  feet  from  the  open  door,  and 
close  to  the  wall  of -the  house  itself.  I  went  back  some  thirty 
yards  up  the  road,  to  the  rising  ground  which  I  had  pointed  out  to 
him.  According  to  the  best  calculation  I  could  make — considering 
the  pace  at  which  I  had  cleared  the  precipitous  pathway,  and 
reckoning  from  the  place  and  time  at  which  Lilian  had  been  last 
s.jen,  she  could  not  possibly  have  yet  entered  that  house — I  might 
presume  it  would  be  more  than  half  an  hour  before  she  could  ar- 
rive ;  I  was  in  hopes  that,  during  the  interval,  Margrave  might 
show  bimself,  perhaps  at  the  door,  or  from  the  windows,  or  I  might 
even  by  some  light  from  the  -latter  be  guided  to  the  room  in  which 
to  find  him.  If,  after  wailing'  a  reasonable  time,  Lilian  should  fail 
to  appear,  I  had  formed  my  own  plan  of  action  ;  but  it  was  impor- 
tant for  the  success  of  that  plan  that  I  should  not  lose  myself  in 
the  strange  house,  nor  bring  its  owners  to  Margrave's  aid — that  I 
should  surprise  him  alone  and  unawares.  Half  an  hour,  three- 
quarters,  a  whole  hour  thus  passed — no  signs  of  my  poor  wanderer  ; 
but  signs  there  were  of  the  enemy,  from  whom  I  resolved,  at  what- 
ever risk,  to  free  and  to  save  her.  A  window  on  the  ground  floor 
to  the  left  of  the  door,  which  had  long  fixed  my  attention  because 
I  had  seen  light  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters,  slowly  unclos- 
ed, the  shutters  fell  back,  the  casement  opened,  aud  I  beheld  Mar- 
grave distinctly  ;  he  held  something  in  his  hand  that  gleamed,  in 
the  moonlight,  directed  not^  toward  the  mound  on  which  I  stood, 
nor  towards  the  path  1  had  taken,  but  toward  an  open  space  be- 
yond the  ruined  wall,  to  the  right.  Hid  by  a  cluster  of  stunted 
shrubs,  I  watched  him  with  a  heart  that  beat  with  rage,  not  witli 
terror.  He  seemed  so  intent  in  his  own  gaze,  as  to  be  inattentive. 
or  unconscious  of  all  else.  I  stole  round  from  my  post,  and  still 
under  cover,  sometimes   of  the   broken    wait,   sometimes   of  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  235 

shaggy  ridges  that  skirted  the  path,  crept  mi,  on  till  I  reached  the 
side  of  the  house  itself;  then,  there  secure  from  his  eye  s,  should  he 
turn  them,  1  stepped  over  the  ruined  wall,  scarcely  two  feet  high 
in  that  place,  on — on  towards  the  door.  I  passed  the  spot  on 
which  the  policeman  had  shrouded  himself;  he  was  scaled,  his 
hack  against  the  ribs  of  the  broken  boat.  I  put  my  hand  to  his 
mouth  that  he  might  not  cry  out  in  surprise,  and  whispered  in  his 
ear  ;  he  stirred  not.  A  ray  of  the  moon  fell  on  his  face.  L  saw 
that  he  was  in  a  profound  slumber.  Persuaded  that  it  was  no 
natural  sleep,  and  thai  lie  had  become  useless  to  me,  1  passed  him 
by.  I  was  at  the  threshold  of  the  open  door  ;  the  light  from  the 
window  clt>se  by  falling  en  the  ground  ;  1  was  in  the  passage  ;  a. 
glimmer  came  through  the  chinks  of  a  door  to  the  left;  I  turned 
the  handle  noiselessly,  and  the  next  moment,  Margrave  was  locked 
in  my  grasp. 

••  CaJ  out,"  1  hissed  in  his  car.  "and  I  strangle  you  before  any 
one  can  come  to  your  help  !" 

He  did  imt  call  out  ;  his  eye,  fixed  on  mine  as  he  writhed  round, 
saw.  perhaps,  his  peril  if  he  did.  His  countenance  betrayed  tear. 
but  as  I  tightened  my  grasp  ;hat  expression  gave  way  to  one  of 
wrath  and  fierceness  ;  and  as.  in  turn.  1  felt  the  gripe  of  his  hand, 
I  knew  that  the  struggle  between  us  would  be  thai,  of  two  strong 
men,  i  ally  benl  on  the  mastery  off-he  other. 

1  was,  as  1  have  said  before,  endowed  with  an  unusual  degree  of 
physical  power,  disciplined,  in  early  youth,  by  athletic  exercise 
and  contest.  I  height  and  in  muscle  I  had  greatly  the  advau 
over  my  antagonist,  hut  such  was  the  nervous  vigor,  the  elastic 
energy  of  his  incomparable  frame,  in  which  sinews  seemed  spr 
of  steel,  that  had  our  encounter  been  one  in  which  my  strength  was 
less  heightened  by  rage,  I  believe  that  1  could  no  more  have  coped 
with  him  than  the  bison  can  cope  with  the  boa  ;  but  I  was  anima- 
ted by  thai  passion  which  trebles  for  a  time  all  our  forces — which, 
makes  even  the  weak  man  a  match  for  the  strong.  1  felt  that  if  I 
were  worsted,  disabled,  stricken  down,  Lilian  might  be  lost  in  los- 
ing her  sole  protector;  and,  on  the  oilier  hand,  Margrave  had  been 
taken  at  the  disadvantage  of  that  surprise  which  wi;l  half  unnerve 
the  fiercest  of  the  wild  beasts  :  whi  e  as  we  grappled,  reeling  and 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  our  struggle,  I  soon  observed  that  his  atten- 
tion was  distracted — that  his  eye  was  turned  towards  an  object 
which  lie  had  dropped  involuntarily  when  I  first  seized  him.  He 
soughl  to  drag  me  towards  that  object,  and  when  Dear  it,  stooped  to 
a  blight,  slender,  short  wand  of  steel.  1  remem- 
bered when  and  where  1  had  seen  it,  whether  in  mywaking  sfaie, 
or  in  vision,  and  his  hand  stole  down  to  take  it  from  the  floor  1  set  l 

e  wand  my  strong  torn.     1  cannot  tell  by  what  rapid  process 
ofthoughl  and  association  1  came  "lief  that  the  possession 

of  a  liti.e  piece  of'  blunted  steel  won  d  decide  in  favor 

of  the  possessor,  but  the  struggle  now  was  opnceiitred  in  the  at- 


236  'a  strange  story. 

tainment  of  that  seemingly  idle  weapon.  I  was  becoming  breath- 
less and  exhausted,  win  e  Margrave  seemed  every  moment  to  gather 
up  new  force,  when,  collecting  all  my  strength  for  one  final  effort, 
I  lifted  him  suddenly  high  in  the  air,  and  hurled  him  to  the  furthest 
end  of  the  cramped  arena  to  which  our  contest  was  confined.  He 
fell,  and  with  a  force  by  which  most  men  would  have  been  stunned: 
but  he  recovered  himself  with  a  quick  rebound,  and,  as  he  stood 
facing  me,  there  was  something  grand  as  well  as  terrible  in  his 
aspect.  His  eyes  literally  flamed,  as  those  of  a  tiger  ;  his  rich 
hair,  flung  back  from  his  knitted  forehead,  seemed  to  erect  it- 
self as  an  angry  mane  ;  his  lips,  slightly  parted,  showed  the 
glitter  of  his  set  teeth  ;  his  whole  frame  seemed  larger  in  the 
tension  of  the  muscles,  and  as  gradually  relaxing  his  first  defy- 
ing and  haughty  attitude,  he  crouched  as  the  panther  crouches 
for  its  deadly  spring,  1  felt  as  if  it  were  a  wild  beast  whose 
rush  was  coming  upon  me — wild  beast,  but  still  Man,  the  king 
of  the  animals,  fashioned  forth  from  no  mixture  of  humbler 
races  by  the  slow  revolutions  of  time,  but  his  royalty  stamped 
on  his  form  when  the  earth  became  fit  for  his  coming* 

At  that  moment  I  snatched  up  the  wand,  directed  it  towards 
him,  and,  advancing  with  a  fearless  stride,  cried, 

"  Down  to  my  feet,  miserable  sorcerer!" 

To  my  own  amaze  the  effect  was  instantaneous.  My  terrible 
antagonist  dropped  to  the  floor  as  a  dog  drops  at  the  word  of  his 
master.  The  muscles  of  his  frowning  countenance  relaxed,  the 
glare  of  his  wrathful  eyes  grew  dull  and  rayless  ;  his  limbs  lay 
prostrate  and  unerved,  his  head  resting  against  the  wall,  his  arm 
limp  and  drooping  by  his  side.  I  approached  him  slowly  and 
cautiously  ;  he  seemed  cast  into  a  profound  slumber. 

"  You  are  at  my  mercy  now  !" 

He  moved  his  head  as  in  sign  of  deprecating  submission.  • 

"  You  hear  and  understand  me  ?     Speak  !" 

His  lips  faintly  muttered  "  Yes." 

"  I  command  you  to  answer  truly  the  questions  I  shall  address 
to  you." 

"  I  must  while  ye;  sensible  of  the  power  that  has  passed  to  your 
hand." 

"  Is  it  by  some  occult  magnetic  property  in  this  wand  that  you 
have  exercised  so  demoniac  an  influence  over  a  creature  so  pure 
as  Lilian  Ashleigh  1" 

"  By  that  wand  and  by  other  arts  which  you  could  not  com- 
prehend." 

"  And  for  what  infamous  object  1 — her  seduction,  her  dishonor?" 


*  "  And  yet,  even  if  we  entirely  omit  the  consideration  of  the  soul,  that  im- 
material and  immortal  principle  which  is  for  a  time  united  to  his  body,  and 
view  him  only  in  his  merely  animal  character,  man  is  still  the  most  excellent 
of  animals."— Dr.  Kidd  on  the  Adaptation  of  External  Nature  to  the  Physical 
Condition  of  Man  (Sect.  iii.  page  18). 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  237 

"  No  !  I  sought  in  her  the  aid  of*  a  gift  which  would  cease,  did 
she  cease  to  be  pure.  At  first  I  but  cast  my  influence  upon  her 
that  through  her  I  might  influence  yourself.  I  needed  your  help 
to  discover  a  secret.  Circumstances  steeled  your  mind  against 
1  could  no  longer  hope  that  you  would  voluntarily  lend  your- 
self to  my  will.  Meanwhile,  I  had  found  in  her  the  light  of  a 
loftier  knowledge  than  that  of  your  science;  through  that  knowl- 
edge, duly  heeded  and  cultivated,  I  hoped  to  divine  what  1  oannol 
of  myself  discover.  Therefore  1  deepened  oxer  her  mind  the  spells 
I  command — therefore  1  have  drawn  her  hither  as  the  loadstone 
draws  the  steel;  and  therefore  I  would  have  borne  her  wilh  me  to 
the  shores  to  which  T  was  about  this  night  to  sail.  I  had  cast  the 
inmates  df  the  house,  and  all  around  it.  into  slumber,  in  order  that 
none  might  witness  her  departure;  had  I  not  done  so,  I  should 
have  summon:  ,1  others  to  my  aid.  in  spite  of  your  threat." 

"  And  would  Lilian  Ashleigh  have  passively  accompanied  you, 
to  her  own  irretrievable  disgrace  ?" 

"  She  could  not  have  helped  it  ;  she  would  have  been  unconscious 
of  her  acts;  she  was,  and  is,  in  a  trance;  nor,  had  she  gone  with 
me,  would  she  have  waked  from  that  state  while"  she  lived  j  that 
Would  not  have  been  long." 

'"Wretch!  and  for  what  objeel  of  unhallowed  curiosity  do  you 
exert  an  influence  which  withers  away  the  life  of  its  victim  ?"    ' 

"Not  curiosity,  but  (he  instinct  of  self-preservation.  I  count  on 
no  life  beyond  the  grave.     1  would  defy  the  grave,  and  live  on." 

'•  And  was  it  to  learn,  through  some  ghastly  agencies,  the  secret 
of  renewing  existence  that  you  lured  me  by  the  shadow  of  yOU* 
own  image  on  the  night  when  we  met  lasl  ?" 

The  voice  of  Margrave  here  became  very  faint  as  he  answered 
me,  and  his  countenance  began  to  exhibit  the  signs  of  an  exhaustion 
almost  mortal. 

"Me  quick,"  he  murmured,  "or  I  die.  The  fluid  which  ema- 
nates from  licit  wand  in  the  hand  of  one  who  envenoms  the  fluid 
will;  his  own  'hatred  and  rage  will  prove  fatal  to  my  life.  Lower 
the  wand  from  my  forehead;  low — low: — lower  still !" 

"  What  was  the  nature  of  that  rite  in  which  you  constrained  me 
to  share  I" 

"  1  cannot  say.  You  are  killing  me.  Enough  that  you  were 
saved  from  a  great  danger  by  the  apparition  of  the  protecting 
image  vouchsafed  to  your  eye,  otherwise  you  would — you  would 

Ob.  release  me  !     Away  !    away  !" 

foam  gathered  to  his  lips  ;    his  limbs  became  fearfully  con- 
vulsed. 

"  One  question  more  :  Where  is  Lilian  at  this  moment  (  An- 
swer that  question,  and  I  depi 

lie  raised  bis  bead,  made  a  visible  effort  to  rally  his  strength, 
and  gasped  out,  ,  * 

"  Yonder.     Lass  through  the  open  space,  up  the  cliff,  beside  a 


238  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

thorn-tree — you  will  find  her  there  where  she  halted  when  the 
wand  dropped  from  my  hand.  But — but — beware  !  Ha  !  you 
will  serve  me  yet,  and  through  her  !  They  said  so  that,  night, 
though  you  heard  them  not.  They  said  it!"  Here  his  face  be- 
came death-like ;  he  pressed  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  shrieked 
out,  "  Away — away  !  or  you  are  my  murderer  !" 

I  retreated  to  the  other  end  of  the  tfoom,  turning  the  wand  from 
him,  and  when  I  gained  the  door,  looked  back;  his  convulsions 
had  ceased,  but  he  seemed  locked  in  a  profound  swoon.  I  left  the 
ruom — the  house — paused  by  Waby  ;  he  was  still  sleeping. — 
"  Awake  !"  1  said,  and  touched  him  with  the  wand.  He  started 
up  at  uiice,  rubbed  his  eyes,  began  stammering  out  excuses.  I 
cheeked  them,  and  bade  him  follow  me.  I  took  the  way  up  the 
open  ground  toward  which  Margrave  had  pointed  the  wand,  and 
there,  motionless,  beside  a  gnarled  fantastic  thorn-tree,  stood 
Lilian.  Her  arms  were  folded  across  her  breast ;  her  face,  seen 
by  the  moonlight,  looked  so  innocent  and  so  infantile,  that  I 
d  no  other  evidence  to  tell  me  how  unconscious  she  was  of 
the  peril  to  whieh  her  steps  had  been  drawn.  I  took  her  gently 
by  the  hand,  "t/ome  with  me,"  I  said,  in  a  whisper;  and  she 
obeyed  me  silently  and  with  a  placid  smile. 

High  though  the  way,  she  seemed  unconscious  of  fatigue.  1 
placed  her  arm  in  mine,  but  she  did  not,  lean  on  it.  We  got  back 
to  the  town.  I  obtained  there  an  old  chaise  and  a  pair  of  horses. 
At  morning  Lilian  was  under  her  mother's  roof.  About  the  noon 
of  that  day  fever  seized  her,  she  became  rapidly  worse,  and,  to  all 
appearance,  in  imminent  danger.  Delirium  set  in  ;  I  watched  be- 
side her  night  and  day,  supported  by  an  inward  conviction  of  her 
recovery,  but  tortured  by  tiie  sight  of  her  sufferings.  On  the  third 
a  change  for  the  better  became  visible,  her  sleep  was  calm, 
her  breathing  regular. 

Shortly  afterwards  she  woke,  out  of  danger.  Her  eyes  fell  at 
once  on  me,  with  all  their  old  ineffable  tender  sweetness. 

"  Oh.  Allen,  beloved,  have  I  not  been  very  ill  1  But  I  am  al- 
most well  now.  Ho  not  weep  ;  I  shall  live  for  you — for  your 
sake."  And  she  bent  forward,  drawing  my  hand  from  my  stream- 
ing eyes,  and  kissing  me  with  a  child's  guileless  kiss  on  my  burn- 
ing forehead. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  239 


CHAPTER  LYI. 

Lilian  recovered,  bul  the  strange  thing  was  this  :  all  memory 
of  the  weeks  that  had  elapsed  aince  her  return  from  visiting  her 
•aunt  was  completely  obliterated  ;  she  seemed  in  profound  igno- 
rance of  the  charge  on  which  I  had  been  confined  :  perfectly  ig- 
norant even  of  the  existence  of  Margrave  ;  she  had.  indeed,  a  very 
vague  reminiscence  of  her  conversation  with  me  in  the  garden — 
the,  first  conversation  which  had  ever  been  embittered  by  a  disa- 
greement— hut  that  disagreement  itself  she  did  not  recollect.  Her 
belief  was  that  she  had  been  ill  and  light-headed  since  that  eve- 
ning. From  that  evening,  to  the  hour  of  her  waking,  conscious 
and  revived,  all  was  a  blank*.  Her  love  for  me  was  restored,  as 
if  its  threads  had  never  been' broken.  Some  such  instances  of  ob- 
livion after  bodily  illness  or  mental  shock'  are  familiar  enough  to 
the  practice  of  all  medical  men;*  and  I  was  therefore  enabled  to 
appease  the  anxiety  and  wonder  of  Mrs.  Asiiieigh  by  quoting  va- 
rious examples  of  loss,  or  suspension,  of  memory.  We  agreed 
that  it  would  be  necessary  to  break  to  Lilian,  though  very  cau- 
tiously, the  story  of  Sir  Philip  Uerval's  murder,  and  tlie  charge  to 
which  I  had  been  subjected.  She  could  not  fail  to  hear  of  those 
events  from  others.  How  shall  1  express  her  womanly  terror,  her 
loving  sympathizing  pity,  on  hearing  the  tale,  which  1  soften* 
well  us  L  could  I 

"  And  to  think  that  1  knew  nothing  of  this  !  "  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing my  hand  ;  "  to  think  that  you  were  in  peril,  and  that  I  Was 
by  your  side  !" 

Her  mother  spoke  of  Margrave  as  a  visitor — an  agreeable,  lively 
stranger;  Lilian  could  not  even  recollect  iiis  name,  but  she  seemed 

*  Such  instances  of  suspense  of  memory  are  recorded  in  must  physioli  -i- 
nd  in  Borne  metaphysical,  works.     Dr.  Abercrombie  notices  some, 
or  less  similar  to  thai  related  in  the  text:  "A  young  lady  who  was  present 

atastrophe  in  Scotland,  in  which  many  people  lost  their  lives  by  ;: 
of  the  gallery  of  a  church,  escaped  without  any  injury,  hut  with  the  complete 
f  the  recollection  of  any  of  the  circumstances;  and  this  extended  not 
fonly  to  the  accident,  bul  to  everything  thai  had  occurred  to  her  tor  a  certain 
time  before  going  to  church.    A  holy  whom  I  attended  some  years  ago  in  a 
protracted  illness,  in  which  her  memory  became  much  impaired,  lost  the  re- 
collection of  a  period  of  about  ten  or  twelve  years,  bul  spoke  with  perfect 
consistency  ol  things  as  they  stood  before  that  time."      Dr.  Abercrombie 
"As  far  as  1  have  l.cen  able  to  trace  it.  the  principle  in  Buch 
io  he.  that  when  the  memory  is  impaired  to  a  certain  degree,  ti,. 
of  it  extends  backward  to  some  event  or  some  period  by  which  a  particularly 
deep  impression  had  been  made  upon  the  mind." — Abercrombie  ou  the  Intel- 
lectual Fowerfc,  pugos  116,  Hi)  (15th  edition).      » 


240  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

shocked  to  think  that  any  visitor  had  been  admitted  while  I  was 
in  circumstances  so  awful  !  Need  I  say  that  our  engagement  was 
renewed?  Renewed!  To' her  knowledge  and  to  her  heart  it- 
had  never  been  interrupted  for  a  moment.  But  oh,  the  malignity 
of  the  wrong  world  !  Oh,  that  strange  lust  of  mangling  reputa- 
tions, which  seizes  on  hearts  the  least  wantonly  cruel  !  Let  two 
idle  tongues  utter  a  tale  against  some  third  person,  who  never  of- 
fended the  Babblers,  and  how  the  tale  spreads,  like  fire,  lighted 
none  know  how,  in  the  herbage  of  an  American  prairie !  Who 
shall  put  it  out1?  , 

What  right  have  we  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  other  men's 
hearths  ?  True  or  false,  the  tale  that  is  gabbled  to  us,  what  con- 
cern of  ours  can  it  be  1  I  speak  not  of  cases  to  which  the  law 
has  been  summoned,  which  law  has  sifted,  on  which  law  has  pro- 
nounced: But  how,  when  the  law  is  silent,  can  we  assume  its  ver- 
dicts ?  How  be  all  judges,  where  there  has  been  no  witness-box, 
no  cross-examination,  no  jury  1  Yet,  every  day  we  put  on  our 
ermine,  and  make  ourselves  judges — judges  sure  to  condemn,  and 
on  what  evidence  ?  That  which  no  court  of  law  will  receive. — 
Somebody  has  said  something  to  somebody,  which  somebody  re- 
to  everybody  ! 

The  gossip  of  L had  set  in  full  current  against  Lilian's  fair 

name.      No  ladies  had  called  or  sent  to  congratulate  Mrs.  Ash- 
on  her  return,  or  to  inquire  after  Lilian  herself  during  her 
struggle  between  life  and  death. 

How  I  missed  the  Queen  of  the  Hill  at  this  critical  moment! 
I  longed  for  aid  to  crush  the  slander,  with  which  I  knew  not 
how  to  grapple — aid,  in  her  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  her  as-  ' 
cen.leiicy  over  its  judgments.  I  had  heard  from  her  once  since 
her  absence,  briefly  but  kindly  expressing  her  amazement  at  the 
ineffable  stupidity  which  could  for  a  moment  have  subjected  me  to 
a  suspicioM  of  Sir  Philip  Derval's  strange  murder,  and  congratu- 
lating me  heartily  on  my  complete  vindication  from  so  monstrous 
irge;  To  this  letter  no  address  was  given.  I  supposed  the 
omission  to  be  accidental,  but  on  calling  at  her  house  to  inquire 
her  direction,  I  found  that  her  servants  did  not  know  it. 

What,  then,  was  my  joy  when,  just  at  this  juncture,  I  received 
a  note  from  Mrs.  Poyntz,  stating  that  she  had  returned  the  night 
before,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  me. 

I  hastened  to  her  house.  "  Ah,"  thought  I,  as  I  sprang  lightly 
up  the  ascent  to  the  Hill,  "  how  the  tattlers  will  be  silenced  by  a* 
word  from  her  imperial  lips!"  And  only  just  as  I  approached 
her  door  did  it  strike  me  how  difficult — nay,  how  impossible,  to 
explain  to  her — the  hard  positive  woman,  her  who  had,  less  osten- 
sibly; but  more  ruthlessly  than  myself,  destroyed  Dr.  Lloyd  for 
his  belief  in  the  comparatively  rational  pretensions  of  clairvoy- 
ance— all  the  mystical  excftses  for  Lilian's  flight  from  her  home  ? 
How  speak  to  her — or,  indeed,  to  any  one — about  an  occult  fascin- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  241 

ation  and  a  magic  wand  ?  No  matter  :  surely  ft  would  be  enough 
to  say  that,  at  the  time,  Lilian  had  been  light-headed,  under  the 
influence  of  the  fever  which  had  afterwards  nearly  proved  fatal. 
The  early  friend  of  Arine  Ashleigh  would  no),  he  a  seven'  critic 
on  any  tale  that  might  right  lite  good  name  of  Anne  Afihleigh's 
daughter.  So  assured,  with  light  heart  and  cheerful  face,  I  fol- 
lowed the  servant  into  the  great  lady's  pleasant  hut.  decorous  pres- 
ence-chamber. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 


fifes.  PoYNTZ  was  on  her  favorite  seat  by  the  window,  and,  for 
a  wonder,  not  knitting — t liat  classic  task  seemed  done;  but  she 
was  smoothing  and  folding  the  completed  work  with  her  white 
comely  hand,  and  smiling  over  it,  as,  if  in  complacent  approval, 
when  I  entered  the  room.  At  the  fireside  sat  the  he-colonel,  in- 
specting a  newly  invented  barometer;  at  another  window,  in  the 
furthest  recess  of  the  room,  stood  Miss  Jane  Poyntz,  with  a  young 
gentleman  whom  I  had  never  before  seen,  but  who  turned  his  eyes 
full  upon  me  with  a  haughty  look  as  the  servant  announced  my 
name,  lie  was  tall,  well-proportioned,  decidedly  handsome,  but 
with  that  expression  of  cold  and  concentred  self-esteem  in  his 
Very  attitude,  as  well  as  his  countenance,  which  makes  a  man  of 
merit  unpopular,  a  man  without  merit  ridiculous. 

The  he-colonel,  always  punctiliously  civil,  rose  from  his  seat, 
shook  hands  with  me  cordially,  and  said,  "  Coldish  weather  to-day  ; 
but  we  shall  have  rain  to-morrow,  Rainy  seasons  come  in  cycles. 
We  are  about  to  commence  a  cycle  of  them  with  heavy  showers." 
lie  sighed,  and  returned  to  his  barometer. 

Miss  .Jane  bowed  to  me  graciously  enough,  but,  was  evidently  a 
little  confused,  a  circumstance  which  might  well  attract  my  no- 
tice, for  1  had  never  before  seen  that  high-bred  young  lady  deviate 
a  hair's  breadth  from  the  even  tenor  of  a  manner  admirable  for  a 
cheerful  and  courteous  ease,  which  one  felt  convinced  would  be 
Unaltered  to  those  around  her  if  an  earthquake  swallowed  one  up 

an  inch  before  lief  feel. 

The  young  gentleman  continued  to  eye  me  loftily,  as  the  heir- 
apparenl  to  some  celestial  planet  might  eye  an  inferior  creature 
from  a  half-fbrmed  nebula  suddenly  dropped  upon  his  sublime  aud 
perfected  star. 

Mrs.  Poyntz  extended  to  me  two  finders,  and  said,  frigidly,  "De- 
Mi 


242  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

lighted  to  see  you  again  !  How  kind  to  attend  so  soon  to  my 
note  !  "  Motioning  me  to  a  seat  beside  her,  she  here  turned  to  her 
husband,  and  said,  "Poyntz,  since  a  cycle  of  rain  begins  to-mor- 
row, better  secure  your  ride  to-day.  Take  these  young  people 
with  you.    I  want  to  talk  with  Dr.  Fenwick." 

The  colonel  carefully  put  away  his  barometer,  and  saying  to  his 
daughter,  "  Come ! "  went  forth.  Jane  followed  her  father  ;  the 
young  gentleman  followed  Jane. 

The  reception  I  had  met  chilled  and  disappointed  me.  I  felt 
that  Mrs.  Poyntz  was  changed,  and  in  her  change  the  whole 
house  seemed  changed.  The  very  chairs  looked  civilly  unfriend- 
ly, as  if  preparing  to  turn  their  backs  on  me.  However,  I  was 
not  in  the  false  position  of  an  intruder ;  I  had  been  summoned  ; 
it  was  for  Mrs.  Poyntz  to  speak  first,  and  I  waited  quietly  for  her 
to  do  so. 

She  finished  the  careful  folding  of  her  work,  and  then  laid  it  at 
rest  in  the  drawer  of  the  table  at  which  she  sat.  Having  so  done, 
she  turned  to  me,  and  said, 

"  By  the  way,  I  ought  to  have  introduced  to  you  my  young 
guest,  Mr.  Ashleigh  Sumner.  You  would  like  him.  He  has  ta- 
lents— not  showy,  but  solid.    He  will  succeed  in  public  life." 

"  So  that  young  man  is  Mr.  Ashleigh  Sumner  1  I  do  not  won- 
der that  Miss  Ashleigh  rejected  him." 

I  said  this,  for  I  was  nettled,  as  well  as  surprised,  at  the  cool- 
ness with  which .  a  lady  who  had  professed  a  friendship  for  me 
mentioned  that  fortunate  young  gentleman,  with  so  complete  an 
oblivion  of  all  the  antecedents  that  had  once  made  his  name  pain- 
ful to  my  ear. 

In  turn,  my  answer  seemed  to  nettle  Mrs.  Poyntz. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  she  did  reject ;  perhaps  she  rather 
misunderstood  him  ;  gallant  compliments  are  not  always  propo- 
sals of  marriage.  However  that  be,  his  spirits  were  n.ot  much 
damped  by  Miss  Ashleigh's  disdain,  nor  his  heart  deeply  smitten 
by  her  charms,  for  he  is  now  very  happy,  very  much  attached  to 
another  young  lady,  to  whom  he  proposed,  three  days  ago,  at  Lady 
Delafield's,  and  not  to  make  a  mystery  of  what  all  our  little  world 
will  know  before  to-morrow,  that  young  lady  is  my  daughter 
Jane." 

"  Were  I  acquainted  with  Mr.  Sumner,  I  should  offer  to  him  my 
sincere  congratulation." 

Mrs.  Poyntz  resumed,  without  heeding  a  reply  more  complimen- 
tary to  Miss  Jane  than  to  the  object  of  her  choice : 

"  I  told  you  that  I  meant  Jane  to  marry  a  rich  country  gentle- 
man, and  Ashleigh  Sumner  is  the  very  country  gentleman  I  had 
then  in  my  thoughts.  He  is  cleverer  and  more  ambitious  than  I 
could  have  hoped  :  he  will  be  a  minister  some  day,  in  right  of  his 
talents,  and  a  peer  if  he  wishes  it,  in  right  of  his  lands.  So  that 
matter  is  settled." 


A.STRANOB    STORY.  243 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  my  mind  passed  rapidly  through 
links  of  reminiscence  and  reasoning,  which  led  me  to  a  mingled 
sentiment  of  admiration  for  Mrs".  Poyntz  as  a  diplomatist  and  of 

distrust  for  Mrs.  Poyntz  as  a  friend.  It  was  now  clear  why  Mrs. 
Poyntz,  before  so  little  disposed  to  approve  my  love, had  urged  me 
at  once  to  offer  my  hand  to  Lilian,  in  order  that  she  might  depart 
affianced  and  engaged  to  the  house  in  which  she  would  meet  Mr. 
Ashleigh  Sumner.  Hence.  Mrs.  Loyntz's  anxiety  lo  obtain  all  the 
information  1  could  afford  her  of  the  savings  and  doings  at  Lady 
Ilauii'hlon's  ;  hence,  the  publicity  she  had  so  suddenly  given  to  my 
engagement;    hence,  when  Mr.  Sumner  had  gone  away,  a  rejected 

suitor,  her  own  departure  from   L ;  she  had  seized  the  very 

moment  when  a  vain  and  proud  man,  piqued  by  the  mortification 
received  from  one  lady,  falls  the  easier  prey  to  the  arts  which  allure 
his  suit  to  another.  All  was  so  far  clear  to  me.  And  I — was  my 
self-oonceil  less  egregious  and  less  readily  duped  than  th.it  of  yon 
gilded  popinjay's!  Eow  skilfully  this  woman  had  knitted  me  into 
her  work  with  the  noiseless  turn  of  her  white  hands  !  arid  yet,  for- 
sooth, I  must  vaunt  the  superior  scope  of  my  intellect,  aid  plumb 
all  the  fountains  of  Nature — I,  who  could  not  fathom  the  little  pool 
of  this  female  schemer's  mind  ! 

But  that  was  no  time  for  resentment  to  her  or  rebuke  for  myself. 
She  was  now  the  woman  who  could  best  protect  and  save  from 
slander  my  innocent,  beloved  Lilian.  But  how  approach  that  per- 
plexing subject. 

Mrs.  Poyntz  approached  it,  and  with  her  usual  decision  of  pur- 
pose which  bore  so  deceitful  a  likeness  to  candor  of  mind. 

"  But  it  was  not  to  tall;  of  my  affairs  that,  I  asked  you  to  call, 
Allen  Fenwick."  As  she  uttered  my  name,  her  voire  softened, 
and  her  manner  took  that  maternal,  caressing  tenderness  which 
had  sometimes  amused  and  sometimes  misled  me.  "No,  1  do  not 
forget  tli.it  you  asked  me  to  be  your  friend,  and  I  take,  without 
pie,  the  license  of  friendship.  What  are  these  stories  that  1 
have  heard  already  about  Lilian  Ashleigh  to  whom  you  were  once 
engaged  V 

■•  !  ■->  whom  1  am  still  engaged." 

"  Is  it  possible  .'  Oh,  then,  of  course  the  stories  I  have  heard 
are  all  false.  Very  likely  ;  no  fiction  in  scandal  ever  surprises  me. 
Poor  dear  Lilian,  then,  never  ran  away  from  her  mother's  hou 

I  smothered  the  angry  pain  which   tins    mode    of  questioning 
ed  me;     1  knew  how  important    it   was  to  Lilian   to  seen 
her  the  countenance  and  support  of  this  absolute  autocrat  ;    i  spoke 
of  Lilian's  long  previous  distemper  of  mind  ;    I  accounted  for  it  as 
an>  intelligent  physician,  unacquainted  with  all  that  I  could  not 
al,  would  account.     Heaven  forgive  me  fur  the  venial 
I,  but  1  spoke  of  the  terrible  charge  against  myself  . 
to  unhinge,  for  a  time,  the  intellect  of  a  girl  so  acutely  sensitivi 
Lilian  ;  1  Bought  to  create  that  impression  as  to  tb«  origin  of  all 


244  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

that  might  otherwise  seem  strange ;  and  in  this  state  of  cerebral 
excitement  she  had  wandered  from  home — but  alone.  I  had  tracked 
every  step  of  her  way  ;  I  had  found  and  restored  her  to  her  home. 
A  critical  delirium  had  followed,  from  which  she  now  rose,  cured 
in  health,  unsuspicious  that  there  could  be  a  whisper  against  her 
name.  And  then,  with  all  the  eloquence  I  could  command,  and  in 
words  as  adapted  as  I  could  frame  them  to  soften  the  heart  of  a 
woman,  herself  a  mother,  I  implored  Mrs.  Poyntz's  aid  to  silence 
all  the  cruelties  of  calumny,  and  extend  her  shield  over  the  child 
of  her  own  early  friend. 

When  I  came  to  an  end,  I  had  taken,  with  caressing  force,  Mrs. 
Poyntz's  reluctant  hands  in  mine.  There  were  tears  in  my  voice, 
tears  in  my  eyes.  And  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  in  reply,  gave 
me  hope,  for  it  was  unusually  gentle.  She  was  evidently  moved. 
The  hope  was  soon  quelled. 

"Allen  Fenwick,"  she  said,  "you  have  a  noble  heart,  I  grieve 
to  see  how  it  abuses  your  reason.  I  cannot  aid  Lilian  Ashleigh  in 
the  way  you  ask.  Do  not  start  back  so  indignantly.  Listen  to  me 
as  patiently  as  I  have  listened  to  you.  That  when  you  brought 
back  the  unfortunate  young  woman  to  her  poor  mother,  her  mind 
was  disordered,  and  became  yet  more  dangerously  so,  I  can  well 
believe  ;  that  she  is  now  recovered,  and  thinks  with  shame,  or  re- 
fuses to  think  at  all,  of  her  imprudent  flight,  I  can  believe  also  ; 
but  I  do  not  believe,  the  World  cannot  believe  that  she  did  not, 
knowingly  and  purposely,  quit  her  mother's  roof,  and  in  quest  of 
that  young  stranger  so  incautiously,  so  unfeelingly  admitted  to  her 
mother's  house  during  the  very  time  you  were  detained  on  the  most 
awful  of  human  accusations.  Every  one  in  the  town  knows  that 
Mr.  Margrave  visited  daily  at  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  during  that  painful 
period;  every  one  in  the  town  knows  in  what  strange,  out-of-the- 
way  place  this  young  man  had  niched  himself;  and  that  a  yacht 
was  bought,  and  lying  in  wait  there.  What  for  1  It  is  said 
that  the  chaise  in  which  you  brought  Miss  Ashleigh  back  to  her 
home  was  hired  at  a  village  within  an  easy  reach  of  Mr.  Margrave's 
lodging — of  Mr.  Margrave's  yacht.  I  rejoice  that  you  saved  the 
poor  girl  from  ruin :  but  her  good  name  is  tarnished,  and  if  Anne 
Ashleigh,  whom  I  sincerely  pity,  .asks  me  my  advice,  I  can   but 

give  her  this  :  "  Leave  L ,  take  your  daughter  abroad,  and  if 

she  is  not  to  marry  Mr.  Margrave,  marry  her  as  quietly  and  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  some  foreigner.'  " 

"Madam  !  madam  !  this,  then,  is  your  friendship  to  her — to  me  ! 
Oh,  shame  on  you  to  insult  thus  an  affianced  husband  !  Shame  on 
me  ever  to  have  thought  you  had  a  heart !" 

"A  heart,  man  !"  she  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely,  springing  up 
and  startling  me  with  the  change  in  her  countenance  and  voice. 
"  And  little  you  would  have  valued,  and  pitilessly  have  crushed 
this  heart,  if  I  had  suffered  myself  to  show  it  to  you  !  What  right 
have  you  to  reproach  me  ?     I  felt  a  warm  interest  in  your  career, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  245 

an  unusual  attraction  in  your  conversation  and  society.  Do  you 
blame  me  for  that,  or  should  I  blame  myself?  Condemned  to  live 
among  brainless!  puppets,  my  dull  occupation  to  pull  the  strings 
that  moved  them,  it  was  a  new  charm  fo  my  life  to  establish  friend- 
ship and  intercourse  with  intellect,  and  spirit,  and  courage.  Ah,  I 
understand  that  look,  half  incredulous,  half  inquisitive." 

"Inquisitive,  no  !  incredulous,  yes  !  Von  desired  my  friendship, 
and  how  does  your  harsh  judgment  of  my  betrothed  wife  prove 
either  to  me  or  to  her  mother,  whom  you  have  known  from  your 
girlhood,  the  first  duty  of  a  friend,  which  is  surely  not  that  of 
leaving  a  friend's  side  the  moment  that  he  needs  countenance  in 
calumny,  succor  in  trouble." 

"It  is  a  better  duty  to  prevent  the  calumny  and  avert  the  trouble. 
Leave  aside  Anne  Ashleigh,  a  cipher  that  I  can  add  or  subtract, 
from  my  sum  of  life  as  I  please.  What  is  my  duty  to  yourself? 
II  is  plain.  It  is  to  tell  you  that  your  honor  commands  you  to 
abandon  all  thoughts  Of  Lilian  Ashleigh  as  your  wife.  Ungrateful 
that  you  are  !  Do  you  suppose  it  was  no  mortification  to  my  pride 
of  woman  and  friend,  that  you  never  approached  me  in  confidence 
except  io  ask  my  good  offices  in  promoting  your  courtship  to 
another?  No  shocks  to  the  quiet  plans  I  had  formed  as  to  our 
familiar  though  harmless  intimacy,  to  hear  that  you  were  bent  on  a 
marriage  in  which  my  friend  would  be  lost  to  me?" 

"  Not  lost ! — not  lost !  ( )ii  the  contrary,  the  regard  I  must  sup- 
pose you  had  for  Lilian  would  have  been  a  new  link  between  our 
homes." 

"Pooh!  Between  me  and  that  dreamy  girl  there  could  have 
been  no  sympathy,  there  could  have  grown  up  no  regard.  You 
would  have  been  chained  to  your  fireside,  and — and — but  no  mat- 
ter. I  stifled  my  disappointment  as  soon  as  I  felt  it — stifled  it,  as 
all  my  life  I  have  stifled  that  which  either  destiny  or  duty — duty 
to  myself  as  to  others — forbids  me  to  indulge.  Ah,  do  not  fancy 
me  one  of  the  weak  criminals  who  can  suffer  a  worthy  liking  to 
grow  into  a  debasing  love.  I  was  not  in  love  with  you,  Allen 
Fonwick." 

"  Do  you  think  I  was  ever  so  presumptuous  a  coxcomb  as  to 
fancy  it?" 

"  No,"  said  she  more  softly  ;  "  I  was  not  so  false  to  my  house- 
hold ties  and  to  my  own  nature.  But  there  are  some  friendships 
which  are  as  jealous  as  love.  I  could  have  cheerfully  aided  you  in 
any  choice  which  my  sense  could  have  approved  for  you  as  wise  ; 
1  should  have  been  pleased  to  have  found  in  such  a  wife  my  most 
intimate  companion.  But  that  silly  child! — absurd!  Neverthe- 
less, the  freshness  and  enthusiasm  of  your  love  touched  me  ;  you 
asked  my  aid.  and  1  gave  it — perhaps  1  did  believe  that  when  you 
saw  more  of  Lilian  Ashleigh  you  would  be  cured  of  a  fancy  con- 
ceived by  the  eye —  I  should  have  known  better  what  dupes  the 
wisest   men  can  be  1>  the  witcheries  of  a  fair  face  and  eighteen  ! 


246  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

\ 

When  I  found  your  illusion  obstinate,  I  wrenched  myself  away 
from  a  vain  regret,  turned  to  my  own  schemes  and  my  own  ambi- 
tion, and  smiled  bitterly  to  think  that  in  pressing  you  to  propose  so 
hastily  to  Lilian,  I  made  your  blind  'passion  an  agent  in  my  own 
plans.  Enough  of  this.  I  speak  thus  openly  and  boldly  to  you 
now  because  now  I  have  not  a  sentiment  that  can  interfere  with 
the  dispassionate  soundness  of  my  counsels.  I  repeat,  you  cannot 
now  marry  Lilian  Ashleigh  ;  I  cannot  take  my  daughter  to  visit 
her;  1  cannot  destroy  the  social  laws  that  I  myself  have  set  in  my 
petty  kingdom." 

"  Be  it  as  you  will.  I  have  pleaded  for  her  while  she  is  still 
Lilian  Ashleigh.  I  plead  for  no  one  to  whom  I  have  once  given 
my  name.  Before  the  woman  whom  I  have  taken  from  the  altar  I 
can  plac( .  as  a  shield  sufficient,  my  strong  breast  of  man.  Who 
has  so  deep  an  interest  in  Lilian's  purity  as  I  have?  Who  is  so 
fitted  to  know  the  exact  truth  of  every  whisper  against  her  1  -Yet 
when  1,  whom  you  admit  to  have  some  reputation  for  shrewd  in- 
telligence— I,  who  tracked  her  away — I,  who  restored  her  to  her 
home — when  i,  Allen  Fenwick,  am  so  assured  of  her  inviolable 
innocence,  in  thought  as  in  deed,  that  I  trust  my  honor  to  her  keep- 
ing— surely,  surely,  I  confute  the  scandal  which  you  yourself  do 
not  believe,  though  you  refuse  to  reject  and  annul  it." 

"  Do  not  deceive  yourself,  Allen  Fenwick,"  said  she,  still  stand- 
ing beside  me,  her  countenance  now  hard  and  stern.  "  Look, 
where  I  stand,  I  am  The  World!  The  World,  not  as  satirists 
depreciate  or  as  optimists  extol  its  immutable  properties,  its  all- 
pervasive  authority.  I  am  the  World!  And  my  voice  is  the 
World's  voice  when  it  thus  warns  you.  Should  you  make  this 
marriage,  your  dignity  of  character  and  position  would  he  gone!  — 
if  you  look  only  to  lucre  and  professional  success,  poosibly  they 
may  not  ultimately  Buffer.  You  have  skill  which  men  need  ;  their 
need  may  >\\\\  draw  patients  to  your  door  and  pour  guineas  into 
your  purse.  But  you  have  the  pride  as  well  as  the  birth  of  a  gen- 
tleman, and  the  wounds  to  that  pride  would  be  hourly  chafed  and 
never  healed.  Your  strong  breast  of  man  has  no  shelter  to  the 
frail  name  of  woman.  The  World,  in  its  health,  will  look  down  on 
your  wife,  though  its  sick  may  look  up  to  you.  This  is  not  all. 
The  World,  in  its  gentlest  mood  of  indulgence,  will  say,  compassion- 
ately, 'Boor  man!  how  weak,  and  how  deceived.  What  an  un- 
fortunate marriage! '  But  the  World  is  not  often  indulgent,  it 
looks  most  to  the  motives  most  seen  on  the  surface.  And  the 
World  will  more  frequently  say,  '  No,  much  too  clever  a  man  to  be 
duped.  Miss  Ashleigh  had  money.  A  good  match  to  the  man 
who  liked  gold  better  than  honor.'  " 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  with  difficulty  suppressing  my  rage,  and 
remembering  that  it  was  a  woman  who  spoke  to  me,  "Farewell, 
madam,"  said  I,  through  my  grinded  teeth.  "  Were  you,  indeed, 
the  Bersanification  of  the  World,  whose  mean  notions  you  mouth 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  2  47 

so  calmly,  I  could  not  disdain  you  more."  I  turned  to  the  door, 
and  left  her  still  standing  erect  and  menacing,  the  hard  sneer  on 
her  resolute  lip,  the  red  glitter  in  her  remorseless  eye. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

If  ever  my  heart  vowed  itself  to  Lilian,  the  vow  was  now  the 
most  trustful  and  the  most  sacred.  1  had  relinquished  our  engage- 
ment hefore,  hut  then  her  affection  seemed,  no  matter  from  what, 
cause,  so  estranged  from  me,  that  though  I  might  be  miserable  to 
lose  Iter,  1  deemed  that  she  would  be  unhappy  in  our  union.  Then, 
too,  she  was  the  gem  and  darling  of  the  little  world  in  which  she 
lived  ;  no  whisper  assailed  her  :  now,  I  knew  that  she  loved  me. 
I  knew  that  her  estrangement  had  been  involuntary,  I  knew  that 
appearances  wronged  her.  and  that  they  never  could  be  ex- 
plained. I  was  in  the  true  position  of  man  to. woman  :'  Pwas 
the  shield,  the  bulwark,  the  fearless  confiding  protector  !  Re- 
sign her  now,  because  the  world  babbled,  because  my  career 
might  be  impeded,  because  my  good  name  might  be  impeached 
— resign  her,  and,  in  that  resignation,  confirm  all  that  was  said 
against  her!  Could  I  do  so,  I  should  be  the  most  craven  of 
gentlemen,  the  meanest  of  men  ! 

I  went  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  and  entreated  her  to  hasten  my  union 
with  her  daughter,  and  lix  the  marriage  day. 

I  found  the  poor  lady  dejected  and  distressed.  She  was  now 
sufficiently  relieved  from  the  absorbing  anxiety  for  Lilian  to  be 
aware  for  the  change  on  the  face  of  that  World  which  the 
woman  I  had  just  quitted  personified  and  concentred ;  she  had 
learned  the  cause  from  the  bloodless  lips  of  Miss  Brabazon. 

"My  child — my  poor  child!"  murmured  the  mother.  "And 
she  so  guileless — so  sensitive  !  Could  she  know  what  is  said,  it 
would  kill  her.  She  would  never  marry  you,  Allen.  She  would 
never  bring  shame  to  you  !" 

"  She  never  need  learn  the  barbarous  calumny.     Give  her  to  me, 

ami  at-  once  ;  patients,  fortune,  fame,  are  not  foufid  only  atL . 

Give  her  to  me  at  once.  But  let  me  name  a  condition  :  I  have  a 
patrimonial  independence — I  have  amassed  large  savings — I  have 
my  profession  and  my  repute.  I  cannot  touch  her  fortune — I  can- 
not— never  can  !  Take  it  while  you  live  ;  when  you  die,  leave  it 
to  accumulate  tor  her  children,  if  children  she  have  ;  not  to  me  ; 
not  to  her — unless  1  am  dead  or  ruined!" 

"Oh,  Allen,  what  a  heart! — what  a  heart!  No,  not  heart, 
Allen — that  bird  in  its  cage  has  a  heart  :  soul — what  a  soul !" 


24S  A    STKANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

How  innocent,  was  Lilian's  virgin  blush  when  I  knelt  to  her  and 
prayed  tbat  she  would  forestall  the  date  that  had  been  fixed  for 
our  union,  and  be  my  bride  before  the  breath  of  the  autumn  had 
withered  the  pomp  of  the  woodland  and  silenced  the  song  of  the 
birds.  Meanwhile,  I  was  so  fearfully  anxious  that  she  should  risk 
no  danger  of  hearing,  even  of  surmising,  the  cruel  slander  against 
her — slum  d  meet  no  cold  contemptuous  looks — above  all,  should 
lit  safe  from  the  barbed  talk  of  Mrs.  Poyntz — that  I  insisted  on 
the  necessity  of  immediate  change  of  air  and  scene.  I  proposed 
that  we  should  all  three  depart,  the  next  day,  for  the  banks  (if  my 
own  beloved  and  native  Windermere.  By  thai  pure  mountain  air 
Lilian's  health  would  be  soon  reestablished;  in  the  church  hal- 
lowed, to  me  by  the  graves  of  my  fathers  our  vows  could  be  plight- 
ed. No  calumny  had  ever  east  a  shadow  over  those  graves.  I 
fell  as  if  my  bride  would  be  safer  in  the  neighborhood  of  my 
mother's  tomb. 

T  carried  my  point:  it  was  so  arranged.  Mrs.  Ashloigh.  how- 
ever, was  reluctant  to  leave  before  she  had  seen  her  dear  friend 
Margaret  Poyntz.  I  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  her  what  she 
might  expect  to  hear  from  that  dear  friend,  but,  as  delicately  as  1 
could,  I  informed  her  that  I  had  already  seen  the  Queen  of  the 
Hill,  and  contradicted  the  gossip  that  had  reached  her  ;  but  that 
as  yet,  like  other  absolute  sovereigns,  the  Queen  of  the  Hill 
thought  it  politic  to  go  with  the  popular  stream,  reserving  all 
cheek  on  its  direction  till  the  rush  of  its  torrent  might  slacken;  and 
that  it  would  be  infinitely  wiser  in  Mrs.  Ashleigh  to  postpone  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Poyntz  until  Lilian's  return  to  L as  my 

wife ;  slander  by  that  time  would  have  wearied  itself  out,  and 
Mrs.  Poyntz  (assuming  her  friendship  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh  to  lie  sin- 
cere) would  then  be  enabled  to  say  with  authority  to  her  subjects, 
"  Dr.  Fenwick  alone  knows  the  facts  of  the  story,  and  his  marriage 
with  Miss  Ashleigh  refutes  all  the  gossip  to  her  prejudii 

1  made,  tbat  evening,  arrangements  with  a  young  and  rising 
practitioner  ;  to  secure  attendance  on  my  patients  during  my  ab- 
sence. I  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  drawing  up  mem- 
oranda to  guide  my  proxy  in  each  case,  however  humble  the  suf- 
ferer. This  task  finished,  I  chanced,  in  searching  for  a  small 
microscope,  the  wonders  of  which  I  thought  might  interest  and 
amuse  Lilian,  to  open  a  drawer  in  which  I  kept  the  manuscript  of  my 
cherished  Physiological  Work,  and,  in  so  doiDg,  my  eye  fell  upon 


A    STRAIYGK    STORY.  249 

the  wand  which  I  had  taken  from  Margrave.  I  had  thrown  it  into 
that  drawer  on   my   return    home   after  restoring  Lilian   to   her 

mother's  house,  and,  in  the  anxiety  which  had  subsequently  preyed 
upon  my  mind,  had  almost,  forgotten  the  strange  possession  1  had 
as  strangely  acquired.  There  it  now  lay,  the  instrument  of  agen- 
cies over  the  mechanism  of  nature  which  no  doctrine  admitted  by 
my  philosophy  could  accept,  side  by  side  with  the  presnm]jtuous 
work  which  had  analyzed  the  springs  by  which  nature  is  moved, 
and  decided  the  principled  by  which  reason  metes  out,  from  the 
inch  of  its  knowledge,  the  I'bm  of  the  Infinite  Unknown. 

I  took  up  the  wand  and  examined  it  curiously.  It  was  evident- 
ly the  work  of  an  aire  far  remote  from  our  own,  scored  over  with 
half-obliterated  characters  in  some  Eastern  tongue,  perhaps  no 
longer  extant.  1  found  that  it,  was  hollow  within.  A  more  accu- 
rate observation  showed,  in  the  centre  of  its  hollow,  an  exceed- 
ingly hue  thread-like  wire,  the  unattached  end  of  which  would 
slightly  touch  the  palm  when  the  wand  was  taken  into  (lie  band. 
Was  it  possible  ihai  there.mighi  be  a  natural  and  even  a  simple 
canst-  for  the  effects  which  this  instrument  produced?  Could  it 
collect,  from  that  great  fpciis  of,  animal  heat  and  nervous 
energy  which  is  placed  in  the  -palm  of  the  human  hand,  some  such 
latent  fluid  as  thai  which  Reichenbach  calls  the  "odic,"  and 
which,  according  to  him,  "rushes  through  and  pervades  universal 
Nature  I  "  After  all,  why  not  I  For  how  many  centuries  lay  un- 
known all  the  virtues  of  the  loadstone  and  the  amber  I  It  is 
but  as  yesterday  that  the  force:',  of  vapor  have  become  to  men 
genii  more  powerful  than  those  conjured  up  by  Aladdin  :  that  light, 
at  a  touch,  springs  forth  from  invisible  air:  that  thought  finds  a 
messenger  swifter  than  the  wings  of  the  tabled  Afrite.  As,  thus 
musing,  my  hand  closed  over  the  wand,  J  felt  a  wild  thrill  thr< 
my  frame.  1  recoiled;  1  was  alarmed  lest  (according  to  the  plain 
common-sense  theory  of  Julius  Faber)  I  might  be  preparing  ray 
imagination  to  form  and  to  credit  its  own  illusions.  Hastily  1  laid 
down  the  wand.  But  then  it,  occurred  to  me,  that  whatever  its 
properties,  it   b  rve-d  the  purpose  of  the  dread  ' 

from  whom  it   had  been  taken,  that  he  might  probably  seek  ti 
possess  himself  of  it;  he    might  to    enter  my    lion 

o  watchful   keeping 

the  incomprehensible  instrun 

solved,  the  th   me,  and    placed  it  in   my 

traveling-trunk  With  such  effects  as  1  selected  for  use  in  I 
sion  that  was  to  commence  with  the  morrow.     I    now  laid  down  to 
rest,  but  I  could  not.  sleep.     The  recollections  of  the  painful  in- 
terview with    '      .  ie  vivid   and  haunting. 

the  sentiment  she  had  conceived  for  bat  of  no 

simple  friendship — something  .  irtain- 

ly  something  else  ;    ami  this  conviction    b  »efore  me  that 

proud  hard  faoe,    disturbed    by  a   pang  wrestled  against   but    not 


250  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

subdued,  and  that  clear  metalic  voice,  troubled  by  the  quiver  of  au 
emotion  which,  perhaps,  she  had  never  analyzed  to  herself.  I  did 
not  need  her  own  assurance  to  know  that  this  sentiment  was  not  to 
be  confounded  with  a  love  which  she  would  have  despised  as  a 
weakness  and  repelled  as  a  crime  ;  it  was  an  inclination  of  the  in- 
tellect, not  a  passion  of  the  heart.  But  it  admitted  a  jealousy 
little  less  keen  than  that  winch  has  love  for  its  cause  ;  so  true  it  is 
that  jealousy  is  never  absent  where  self-love  is  always  present. 
Certainly  it  was  no  susceptibility  of  sober  friendship  which  had 
made  the  stern  arbitress  of  a  coterie  ascribe  to  her  interest  in  me 
her  pitiless  judgment  of  Lilian.  Strangely  enough,  with  the  image 
of  this  archetype  of  conventional  usages  and  the  trite  social  life, 
came  that  of  the  mysterious  Margrave,  surrounded  by  all  the  at- 
tributes with  which  superstition  clothes  the  being  of  the  shadowy 
border  land  that  lies  beyond  the  chart  of  our  visual  world  it- 
self. By  what  link  were  creatures  so  dissimilar  riveted  together 
in  the  metaphysical  chains  of  association  I  Both  had  entered  into 
the  record  of  my  life  when  my  life  admitted  its  own  first  romance 
of  love.  Through  the  aid  of  this  cynical  schemer  1  had  been 
made  known  lo  Lilian.  At  her  house  1  had  heard  the  dark  story  of 
that  Louis  (irayle,  with  whom,  in  mocking  spite  of  my  reason,  con- 
jectures (which  that  very  reason  must  depose  itself  before  it  could  re- 
solve into  distempered  fancies)  identified  the  enigmatical  Margrave. 
And  now  both  she,  the  representative  of  the  formal  world  most  op- 
posed to  visionary  creeds,  and  he.  who  gathered  round  him  all  the 
terrors  which  haunt  the  realm  of  fable,  stood  united  against  me — 
foes  witli  whom  the  intellect  1  had  so  haughtily  cultured  knew  not 
how  to  cope.  Whatever  assault  I  might  expect  from  either,  I  was 
unable,  to  assail  again.  Alike,  then,  in  this,  are  the  Slander  and 
the  Phantom  ;  that  which  appals  us  most,  in  their  power  over  us  is 
our  impotence  against  them. 

But  up  rose  the  sun,  chasing  the  shadows  from  the  earth,  and 
brightening  insensibly  the  thoughts  of  man.  After  all,  Margrave 
had  been  baffled  and  defeated,  whatever  the  arts  he  had  practised 
and  the  secrets  he  possessed.  It  was,  at  least,  doubtful  whether* 
his  evil  machinations  would  be  renewed.  He  had  seemed  so  in- 
capable of  long-sustained  fixity  of  purpose,  that  it  was  probable 
he  was  already  in  pursuit  of  some  new  agent  or  victim  ;  and  as  to 
this  common-place,  and  conventional  spectre,  the  so-called  World, 
if  it  is  everywhere  to  him  whom  it  awes,  it  is  nowhere  to  him  who 
despises  it.  TVbat  was  the  good  or  bad  word  of  a  Mrs.  Poyntz  to 
me?  Ay.  but  to  Lilian?  There,  indeed,  I  trembled;  but  still 
even  in  trembling  it  was  sweet  to  think  that  my  home  would  be  her 
shelter — my  choice  her  vindication.  Ah.  how  unutterably  tender 
and  reverential  Love  becomes  when  it  assumes  the  duties  of  the 
guardian,  and  hallows  its  own  heart  into  a  sanctuary  of  refuge  for 
the  beloved ! 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  251 


CHAPTER  LX, 


The  beautiful  lake  !  We  two  are  on  its  grassy  margin.  Twi- 
light melting  into  night  ;  the  stars  stealing  forth,  one  after  one. 
What  a  wdnderful  change  is  made  within  us  when  we  eome  from 
our  callings  amongst  men,  chafed,  wearied,  wounded  ;  gnawed  by 
oar  cares,  perplexed  by  the  doubts  of  our  very  wisdom,  stung  by 
the  adder  that  dwells  in  cities — Slander;  nay,  even  if  renowned, 
fatigued  with  the  burdens  of  the  very  names  that  we  have  won  ; 
what  a  change  is  made  within  us  when  suddenly  we  find  ourselves 
transported  into  the  calm  solitudes  of  Nature; — into  scenes  famil- 
iar to  our  happy  dreaming  childhood ;  hack,  hack  from  the  dusty 
thoroughfares  of  our  toil-worn,  manhood  fcp  the  golden  fountain  of 
our  youth  !  Blessed  is  the  change,  even  when  we  have  no  com- 
panion beside  us  to  whom  the  hear!  can  whisper  its  sense  (if  relief 
and  joy.  But  if  the  One,  in  whom  all  our  future  is  garnered  up, 
be  with  us  1  here,  inslead  of  that  wearied  World  which  has  so  magi-. 
cally  vanished  away  from  the  eye  and  the  thought,  then  does  the 
change  make  one  of  those  rare  epochs  of  life  in  which  the  charm 
is  the  stillness.  In  the  pause  from  all,  by  which  our  own  turbulent 
Struggles  for  happiness  trouble  existence,  we  feel  with  a  rapt 
amaze  how  calm  a  thing  it  is  to  be  happy.  And  so  as  the  night, 
in  deepening,  brightened,  Lilian  and  1  wandered  by  the  starry 
lake.  Conscious  of  no  evil  in  ourselves,  how  secure  we  fell  from 
evil  !  A  few  days  more — a  few  days  more,  and  we  two  should  he 
as  one.  And  that  thought  we  uttered  in  many  forms  of  words, 
brooding  over  it  in  the  long  intervals  of  enamored  silence. 

And  when  we  turned  back  to  the  quiet  inn  at  which  we  had 
taken  up  our  abode,  and  her  mothor,  with  her  soft  face,  advanced 
to  meet  us.  i  said  to  Lilian  : 

"  Would  that  in  these  scenes  we  could  fix  our  home  for  life, 
away  and  afar  from  the  dull  town  we  have  left  behind  us,  with  the 
fret  of  its  wearying  cares  and  the  jar  of  its  idle  babble  !" 

"  And  why  not,  Allen  1  Why  not  l  But  no,  you  would  not  be 
happy."' 

"  Not  be  happy,  and  with  you  ?  Sceptic!  by  what  reasonings 
do  you  arrive  at  that  ungracious  conclusion?" 

"  The  heart  loves  repose  and  the  soul  contemplation,  but  the 
mind  needs  action.     Is  it  not,  so  ?" 

"  Where  learned  yon  that  aphorism,  out  of  place  on  such  rosy 
lips?" 

"  I  learned  it  in  studying  you,"  murmured  Lilian,  tenderly. 

Here  .Airs.  Ashleigh  joined  us.  For  the  first  time  i  slept  under 
the  same  roof  as  Lilian.  And  1  forgot  I  hat  the  universe  contained 
an  enigma  to  solve  or  an  enemy  to  fear. 


252  A    STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

Twenty  days — the  happiest  my  life  had  ever  known: — thus 
glided, on.  Apart  from  the  charm  which  love  bestows  on  the  be- 
loved, there  was  -that  in  Lilian's  conversation  which  made  her  a 
delightful  companions  Whether  it  was  that,  in  this  pause  from  the 
toils  of  my  career,  my  mind  could  more  pliantly  suple  itself  to 
her  graceful  invagination,  or  that  her  imagination  itself  was  less 
vague  and  dreamy  amidst  those  rural  scenes  which  realized  in 
their  loveliness  and  grandeur  its  long-conceived  ideals,  that  it  had 
been  in  the  petty  garden-ground  neighbored  by  the  stir  and  hubbub 
of  the  busy  town — in  much  that  I  had  once  slighted  or  contemned 
as  the  vaguenes  of  undisciplined  fancy,  I  now  recognized  the  spar- 
kle and  play  of  an  intuitive  genius  lighting  up  many  a  depth  ob- 
scure to  instructed  thought.  It  is  with  some  characters  as  with 
tin;  subtler  and  more  etherial  order  of  poets.  To  appreciate  them 
we  must  suspend  the  course  of  artificial  life.  In  the  city  we  call 
dreamers,  on  tin?  mountain-top  we  rind  them  interpreters. 

In  Lilian  the  sympathy  with  Nature  was  not,  as  in  Margrave, 
fVom  the  joy  and  sense  of  Nature's  lavish  vitality,  it  was  refined 
into  exquisite  perception  of  the  diviner  spirit  by  which  that  vital- 
ity is  so  informed.  Thus,  like  the  artist,  from  outward  forms  of 
beauty  she  drew  forth  the  covert  types,  lending  to  things  the  most 
familiar  exquisite  meanings  unconceived  before.  For  it  is  truly 
said  by  a  wise  critic  of  old,  that  "  the  attribute  of  Art  is  to  sug- 
infinitely  more  than  it  expresses,"  and  such  suggestions,  pass- 
ing from  the  artist's  innermost  thoughts  into  the  mind  that  receives 
them,  open  on  and  on  into  the  Infinite  of  Ideas,  as  a  moonlit  wave 
struck  by  a  passing  oar  impels  wave  upon  wave  along  one  track  of 

light.  ; 

So  the  days  glided  by,  and  brought  the  eve  of  our  bridal  morn. 
It  had  been  settled  that,  after  the  ceremony  (which  was  to  be  per- 
formed by  license  in  the  village  church,  at  no  great  distance,  which 
/.ied  my  paternal  home,  now  passed  away  to  strangers),  we 
should  n:.-  •'■•[  excursion  into   Scotland;  leaving  Mrs.  Ash- 

leigh  to  await  our  return  at  the  little  inn. 

I  had  retired  to  my  own  room  to  answer  some  letters  from  anx- 
ious patients,  and  having  finished  these,  I  looked  into  my  trunk 
for  a  Guide-Book  to  the  North,  which  I  had  brought  with  me. — 
me  upon  Margrave's  wand,  and  remembering  that 
brill  which  had  passed  through  me  when  I  last  handled 
it,  I  drew  it  forth,  resolved  to  examine  calmly  if  I  could  detect 
the  cause  of  the  sensation.     Tt  was  not  now  the  time  of  night  in 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  25j} 

which  {he  imagination  is  most  liable  to  credulous  impressions,  laor 
was  I  now  in  the  anxious  and  jaded  state  of  mind  in  which  such 
impressions  may  be  tin-  more  readily  conceived.  The  sun  was 
slowly  setting  over  the  delicious  landscape;  the  air  cool  and  se- 
rene; my  thoughts  collected  ;  heart  and  conscience  alike  at  peace. 
I  took,  then,  the  wand,  and  adjusted  it  to  the  palm  of  the  hand  as 
1  had  done  before.  I  felt  the  slight  touch  of  the  delicate  wire  within 
and  again  the  thrill  !  1  did  not  this  time  recoil;  I  continued  to 
grasp  the  wand,  and  sought  deliberately  to  analyze  my  own  sensa- 
tions in  the  contact.  There  came  over  me  an  increased  conscious- 
ness of  vital  power;  a  certain  exhilaration,  elasticity,  vigor,  such 
as  a  strong  cordial  may  produce  on  a  fainting  man.  All  the  fo 
of  my  frame  seemed  refreshed,  redoubled ;  and  as  such  el 
the  physios]  system  arc  ordinarily  accompanied  by  correspondent 
on  the  mind,  so  I  was  sensible  of  a  proud  elation  of  spirits. 
a  kind  of  defying,  superb  self-glorying.  All  feftr  seemed  blotted 
out  from  my  though  1.  as  a,  weakness  impossible  to  the  grandeur 
and  might  which  belonged  to  Intellectual  Man;  1  felt  as  it' it  were 
a  royal  delight  to  scorn  Earth  and  its  opinions,  brave  Hades  and 
its  speotres.  Rapidly  this  new-bom  arrogance  enlarged  itself  into 
desires  vague  but  daring  ;  my  mindreverted  to  the  wild  phenomena 
associated  with  its  memories  of  Margrave,  1  said,  half-aloud,  "  If 
a  creature  so  beneath  myself  in  constancy  of  will  and  comple- 
tion of  thought  can  wrest  from  Nature  favors  so  marvelous,  wbal 
could  not  be  won  from  her  by  me,  her  patient  persevering  seeker  :' 
What  if  there  be  spirits  around  and  about,  invisible  to  the  common 
eye.  but  whom  we  can  submit  to  our  control,  and  what  if  this  rod 
be  chatted  with  sonic  occult  fluid,  that  runs  through  all  creation, 
and  can  be  so  deciphered  as  to  establish  communication  wherever 
life  and  thought  can  reach  to  beings  that  live  and  think  !  So  would 
the  mystics  of  old  explain  what  perplexes  me.  Am  I  sure  that 
the  mystics  of  old  duped  themselves  or  their  pupils  '.  This,  then, 
this  slight  wand,  light  as  a  reed  in  my  grasp,  this,  then,  was  the 
instrument  by  which  Margrave  sent  his  irresistible  will  through 
air  and  space,  and  by  which  I  smote  himself,  in  the  midst  of  his 
tiger-like  wrath,  into  the  helplessness  of  a  sick  man's  swoon  !  Can 
the  instrument  at  this  distance  still  control  him  ;  if  now  meditating 
evil,  disarm  and  disable  his  ;  '     Involuntarily  as  1  rev< 

these  ideas,  I  stretched  forth  the  wand  with  a  concentred  c. 
of  desire  that  its  influence  should  reach  Margrave  and  command 
him.  And  since  1  knew  not  his  whereabouts,  yet,  was  vaguely 
aware  that,  according  to  any  conceivable  theory  by  which  the  wand 
could  be  supposed  to  earn-  its  imagined  virtues  to  definite  goals  in 
distant  space,  it  should  be  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  object  it 
was  intended  to  affect,  so  I  slowly  moved  the  wand  as  if  describ- 
ing a  circle,  and  lints,  in  some  point  of  the  circh — east,  west, 
north,  or  south — the  direction  could  noi  fail  to  be  tine.  Before  1 
had  performed  half  the  circle,  the  wand  of  itself  stopped,  resisting 


254  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

palpably  the  movement  of  my  hand  to  impel  it  onward.  'Had  it, 
then,  found  the  point  to  which  my  will  was  guiding  it,  obeying  my 
will  by  some  magnetic  sympathy  never  yet  comprehended  by  any 
recognized  science  ?  I  know  not ;  but  I  had  not  held  it  thus  fixed 
for  many  seconds,  before  a  cold  air,  well  remembered,  passed  by 
me,  stirring  the  roots  of  my  hair ;  and,  reflected  against  the  op- 
posite wall,  stood  the  hateful  Scin-Lceca.  The  Shadow  was  dim- 
mer in  its  light  than  when  before  beheld,  and  the  outline  of  the 
features  was  less  distinct,  still  it  was  the  unmistakable  lemur, 
or  image  of  Margrave. 

And  a  voice  was  coveyed  to  my  senses,  saying,  as  from  a  great 
distance,  and  in  weary  yet  angry  accents, 

"  You  have  summoned  ffle  !     Wherefore  V 

I  overcame  the  startled  shudder  with  which,  at  first,  I  beheld  the 
Shadow  and  heard  the  Voice. 

"  I  summoned  you  not,"  said  I ;  "  I  sought  but  to  impose  upon 
you  my  will,  that  you  should  persecute,  with  your  ghastly  influ- 
ences, me  and  mine  no  more.  And  now,  by  whatever  authority 
this  wand  bestows  on  me,  I  so  adjure  and  command  you  !" 

I  thought  there  was  a  sneer  of  disdain  on  the  lip  through  which 
the  answer  seemed  to  come  : 

"  Vain  and  ignorant ;  it  is  but  a  shadow  you  command.  My 
body  you  have  cast  into  a  sleep,  and  it  knows  not  that  the  shadow 
is  here  ;  nor,  when  it  wakes,  will  the  'brain  be  aware  of  one  remin- 
iscence of  the  words  that  you  utter  or  the  words  that  you  hear." 

"  What,  then,  is  this  shadow  that  simulates  the  body?  Is  it 
that  which  in  popular  language  is  called  the  soul?" 

"  It  is  not  ;  soul  is  no  shadow." 

"  What  then  V 

"  Ask  not  me.  Use  the  wand  to  invoke  intelligence  higher  than 
mine." 

"  And  how  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  not.  Of  yourself  you  may  learn,  if  you  guide 
the  wand  by  your  own  pride  of  will  and  desire;  but  in  the  hands 
of  him  who  has  learned  not  the  art,  the  wand  has  its  dangers. — 
Again,  I  say  you  have  summoned  me  !     Wherefore  V 

"  Lying  shade,  I  summoned  thee  not." 

"  So  wouldst  thou  say  to  the  demons,  did  they  come  in  their  ter- 
rible wrath,  when  the  bungler,  who  knows  not  the  springs  that  he 
moves,  calls  them  up  unawares,  and  can  neither  control  nor  dispel. 
Less  revengeful  than  they,  I  leave  thee  unharmed,  and  depart  !" 

"  Stay.  If,  as  thou  sayest,  no  command  1  address  to  thee — to 
thee,  who  art  only  the  image  or  shadow — can  have  effect  on  the 
body  and  mind  of  the  being  whose  likeness  thou  art,  still  thou  canst 
tell  me  what  passes  now  in  his  brain.  Does  it  now  harbor  schemes 
against  me  through  the  woman  I  love  ?     Answer  truly." 

"  I  reply  for  the  sleeper,  of  whom  I  am  more  than  a  likness, 
though  only  the  shadow.      His  thought  speaks  thus :  '  I  know, 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  255 

Allen  Fen-wick,  that  in  thee  is  the  agent  I  need  for  achieving  the 
end  that  I  seek.  Through  the  woman  thou  lovest  I  hope  to  sub- 
ject thee.  A  grief  that  will  harrow  thy  heart  is  at  hand  :  when 
that  grief  shall  befall,  thou  wilt  welcome  my  coming.  In  me  alone 
thy  hope  will  be  placed — through  me  alone  wilt  thou  seek  a  path 
out  of  thy  sorrow.  I  shall  ask  my  conditions:  they  will  make 
thee  my  tool  and  my  slave  !  " 

The  Shadow  waned — if  was  gone.  I  did  not  seek  to  detain  it, 
nor,  had  1  sought,  could  1  have  known  by  what  process.  But  a 
new  idea  now  possessed  me.  This  Shadow,  then,  that  had  once 
so  appalled  and  controlled  me,  was,  by  its  own  confession,  nothing 
more  than  a  Shadow  !  It  bad  spoken  of  higher  Intelligences  ;  from 
them  1  might  learn  what  the  Shadow  could  not  reveal.  As  still  I 
held  the  wand  firmer  and  tinner  in  my  grasp,  my  thoughts  grew 
haughtier  and  bidder.  Could  the  wand,  then,  bring  those  loftier 
beings  thus  darkly  referred  to  before  me  I  With  that  thought,  in- 
tense and  engrossing,!  guided  the  wand  towards  tin'  space,  opening 
boundless  and  blue  from  the  easement  that  let  in  the  skies.  The 
wand  no  longer  resisted  my  hand. 

In  a  few  moments  1  fell  the  floors  of  the  room  vibrate;  the  air 
was  darkened ;  a  vaporous  hazy  cloud  seemed  to  rise  from  the 
ground  without  the  casement ;  an  awe,  infinitely  more  deep  and 
solemn  than  that  which  the  Sein-Lara  had  caused  in  its  earliest 
apparition,  curdled  through  my  veins,  and  stilled  the  very  beat  of 
my  heart. 

At  that  moment,  I  beard,  without,  the  voice  of  Lilian,  singin 
simple  sacred  song  which  1  had  learned  a1  my  mother's  knees,  and 
taught  to  her  the  day  before  :  singing  low.  and  as  with  a  warning 
angel's  voice.  By  an  irresistible  impulse  1  dashed  the  wand  to  the 
ground,  and  bowed  my  head  as  I  had  bowed  it  when  my  infant 
mind  comprehended  without  an  effort,  mysteries  more  solemn  than 
those  which  perplexed  me  now.  Slowly  1  raised  my  eyes,  and 
looked  round  :  the  vaporous  hazy  cloud  had  passed  away,  or  melted 
into  the  ambient  rose  tints  amidst  which  the  sun  had  sunk. 

Then,  by  one  of  those  common  reactions  from  a  period  of  over- 
strained excitement,  there  succeeded  to  that  sentiment  of  arrogance 
and  daring  with  which   these  wild,  half-conscious  invocations 
been  fostered  and  sustained,  a  profound  humility,  a  warning  fear. 

"  "What!  "  said  1,  inly.  "  have  all  those  sound  resolutions,  which 
my  reason  founded  on  the  wise  talk  of  Julius  Faber,  melted  away 
in  the  wrack  of  haggard  dissolving  fancies !  Is  this  my  boasted 
intellect,  my  vaunted  science!  I — I,  Allen  Fenwiek,  not  only  the 
credulous  believer,  but  the  blundering  practitioner,  of  an  evil  magic  ! 
Grant  what  may  be  possible,  however  uncomprehended — grant  that 
in  this  accursed  instrument  of  antique  superstition  there  be  s 
real  powers — chemical,  magnetic,  no  matter  what — by  which  the 
imagination  can  be  aroused,  inflamed,  deluded,  so  that  it  shapes 
the  things  I  have  seen,  speaks  in  the  tones  I  have  heard — grant 


255  A    STRANGE   STORY. 

this;  shall  I  keep  ever  ready,  at  the  caprice  of  will,  a  constant 
tempter  to  steal  away  my  reason  and  fool  my  senses  1 — or  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  force  my  sense  to  admit  what  all  sober  men  must 
reject — if  I  unschool  myself  to  believe  that  in  what  I  have  just 
experienced,  there  is  no  mental  illusion,  that  sorcery  is  a  fact,  and 
a  demon  world  has  gates  which  open  to  a  key  that  a  mortal  can 
forge — who  but  a  saint  would  not  shrink  from  the  practice  of  pow- 
ers by  which  each  passing  thought  of  ill  might  find  in  a  fiend  its 
abettor  %     In  either  case — in  any  case — while  I  keep  this  direful 

relic  of  obsolete  arts,  I  am  haunted — cheated  out  of  my  senses 

unfitted  for  the  uses  of  life.  If,  as  my  ear  or  my  fancy  informs  me, 
— human  grief — is  about  to  befall  me,  shall  I,  in  the  sting  of 
i  inpatient  sorrow,  have  recourse  to  an  aid  which,  the  same  voice 
declares)  will  reduce  me  to  a  tool  and  a  slave1? — tool  and  slave  to 
a  bring  I  dread  as  a  foe  !  Out  on  these  nightmares  !  and  away 
the  thing  that  bewitches  the  brain  to  conceive  them  !  " 

1  rose;  I  took  up  the  wand,  holding  it  so  that  its  hollow  should 
not  rest  on  the  palm  of  the  hand.  I  stole  from  the  house  by  the 
back  way,  in  order  to  avoid  Lilian,  whose  voice  I  still  heard,  sing- 
ing low,  on  the  lawn  in  front.  I  came  to  a  creek,  to  the  bank  of 
which  a  boat  was  moored,  undid  its  chain,  rowed  on  to  a  deep  par^ 
of  the  lake,  and  dropped  the  wand  into  its  waves.  It  sank  at  once  ; 
scarcely  a  ripple  furrowed  the  surface,  not  a  bubble  rose  from  the 
deep.  And,  as  the  boat  glided  on,  the  star  mirrowed  itself  on  the 
split  where  the  placid  waters  had  closed   over  the   tempter  to  evil. 

Light  at  heart  I  sprang  again  on  the  shore,  and  hastening  to 
Lilian,  where  she  stood  on  the  silvered  shining  sward,  clasped 
her  to  my  breast. 

"  Spirit  of  my  life!  "  I  murmured,  "  no  enchantments  for  me  but 
thine  !  Thine  are  the  spells  by  which  creation  is  beautified,  and, 
in  that  beauty,  hallowed.  'What,  though  we  can  see  «not  into  the 
measureless  future  from- the  verge  of  the  moment — what  though 
sorrow  may  smite  us  while  we  are  dreaming  of  bliss,  let  the  future 
not  rob  me  of  thee,  and  a  halm  will  be  found  for  each  wound. 
me  ever  as  now,  oh  my  Lilian  ;  troth  to  troth,  side  by  side, 
till  the  grave  !  " 

"  And  beyond  the  grave,"  answered  Lilian,  softly. 


A   STRAXGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

Our  vows  were  exchanged  at  the  altar — the  rite  which  made 
Lilian  my  wife  is.  performed — we  are  returning  from  the  church, 
amongst  the  hills,  in  which  my  lathers  had  Worshipped  ;  the  joy- 
hells  that  rang  for  my  marriage  had  pealed  for  my  birth.  Lilian 
had  gone  to  her  room  to  prepare  for  our  bridal  excursion  ;  while 
the  carriage  we  have  hired  is  waiting  at  tiie  door.  1  am  detaining 
her  mother  on  the  lawn,  seeking  to  cheer  and  compose  her  spirits, 
painfully  affected  by  that  sense 'of  change  in  the  relations  of  child 
and  parent  which  makes  itself  suddenly  felt  by  the  parent's  heart 
on  the  day  thai  secures  1o  the  child  another  heart  on  which  to  lean. 

But  Mrs.  Ashleigh's  was  one  of  those  gentle  womanly  natures 
which,  if  easily  afflicted,  are  easily  consoled.  And,  already  smiling 
through  Iter  tears,  she  was  about  to  quit  me  and  join  her  daugh- 
ter, when  one  of  the  inn  servants  came  to  me  with  some  letters, 
which  had  just  been  delivered  by  the  postman.  As  [  look  them 
from  the  servant,  Mrs.  Ashleigh  asked  if  there  were  any  letters  for 

her  ?     She  expected  one  from  her  housekeeper  at  L ,  who  had 

been  taken  ill  in  her  absence,  and  about  whom  the  kind  n  istress 
felt  anxious.  The  servant  replied  that  there  was  no  letter  for  her, 
but  one  directed  to  Miss  Ashleigh,  which  he  had  just,  sent  up  to 
the  young  lady. 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  did  not  doubt  that  her  housekeeper  had  written  to 
Lilian,  whom  she  had  known  from  the  cradle,  and  to  whom  she 
was  tenderly  attached,  instead  of  to  her  mistress,  and  saying  some- 
thing to  me  to  that  effect,  quickened  her  steps  towards  the  house. 

1  was  glancing  over  my  own  letters,  chiefly  from  patients,  with 
a  rapid  eye,  when  a  cry  of  agony,  a  cry  as  of  one  suddenly  strick- 
en to  the  heart,  pierced  my  ear — a  cry  from  within  the  house. 
"  Heavens  !  was  not  that  Lilian's  voice?''  The  same  doubt  struck 
Mrs.  Ashleigh,  who  had  already  gained  the  door.  She  rushed  on, 
disappearing  within  the  threshold,  and  cajling  to  me  to  follow.  I 
bounded  forward — passed  her  on  the  stairs — wTas  in  Lilian's  room 
before  her. 

My  bride  was  on  the  floor,  prostrate,  insensible.  So  still,  so 
colorless!  that  my  first  dreadful  thought  was  that  life  lad  gone. 
In  her  hand  .was  a  letter,  crushed,  as  with  a  convulsive  sudden 
grasp. 

It  was  long  before  the  color  came  back  to  her  cheek,  before  the 

breath  was  perceptible  on  her  lip.     She  woke,  but  not,  to  health, 

not  to  sense.      Hours  were  passed  in  violent  convulsions,  in  which 

I  momently  feared  her  death.  To  these  succeeded  stupor,  lethargy, 

17  " 


258  'a  strange  story. 

not  benignant  sleep.  That  night,  my  bridal  night,  I  passed  as  in 
some  chamber  to  which  I  had  been  summoned  to  save  youth  from 
the  grave.  At  length,  life  was. rescued,  was  assured  !  Life  came 
back,  but  the  mind  was  gone.  She  knew  me  not,  nor  her  mother. 
She  spoke  little  and  faintly ;  in  the  words  she  uttered  there  was 
no  reason. 

I  pass  hurriedly  on  ;  my  experience  here  was  in  fault,  my  skill 
ineffectual.  Day  followed  day,  and  no  ray  came  back  to  the  dark- 
ened brain.  We  bore  her,  by. gentle  stages,  to  London.  I  was 
sanguine  of  good  result  from  skill  more  consummate  than  mine, 
and  more  specially  devoted  to  diseases  of  the  mind.  I  summoned 
the  first  advisers.     In  vain  ! — in  vain  !  . 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

And  the  cause  of  this  direful  shock  ?  Not  this  time  could  it  be 
traced  to  some  evil  spell,  sonic  phantasmal  influence.  The  cause 
was  clear,  and  might  have  produced  effects  as  sinister  on  nerves  of 
Stronger 'fibre  if  accompanied  with  a  heart  as  delicately  sensitive, 
an  honor  as  exquisitely  pure. 

The  letter  found  in  her  hand  was  without  name  ;  it  was  dated 

from  L ,  and  bore  the  postmark'  of  that  town.     It  conveyed  to 

Lilian,  in  the  biting  words  which  female  malice  can  make  so  sharp. 
the  tale  we  had  sought  sedulously  to  guard  from  her  ear — lier 
flight,  the  construction  that  scandal  put  upon  it.  It  affected  for 
my  blind  infatuation  a  contemptuous  pity  ;  it  asked  her  to  .pause 
before  sic  brought  on  the  name  1  offered  to  her  an  indelible  dis- 
grace.    If  she  so  decided,  she  was  warned  not  to  return  to  L , 

or  to  prepare  there  for  the  sentence  that  would  exclude  her  from 
the  society  of  her  own  sex.  I  cannot  repeat  more,  I  cannot  min- 
ute down  all  that  the  letter  expressed  or  implied,  to  wither  the 
orange  blossoms  in  a  bride's  wreath.  The  heart  that  took  in  the 
venom  cast  its  poison  on  the  brain,  and  the  mind  fled  before  the 
presence  of  a  thought  so  deadly  to  all  the  ideas  which  its  innocence 
had  heretofore  conceived. 

I  knew  not  whom  to  suspect  of  the  malignity  of  this  mean  and 
miserable  outrage,  nor  did  I  much  care  to  know.  The  handwrit- 
ing, though  evidently  disguised,  was  that  of  a  woman,  and,  there- 
fore, had  1  discovered  the  author  my  manhood  would  have  forbidden 
me  the  idle  solace  of  revenge.  Mrs.Poyntz,  however  resolute  and 
pjtiless  her  hostility  when  once  aroused,  was  not  without  a  certain 
largeness  of  nature  irreconcilable  with  the  most  dastardly  of  all 
tbo  weapons  that  hatred  or  envy  can  supply  to  the  vile.     She  had 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  259 

too  lofty  a  self-esteem  and  too  decorous  a  regard  for  the  mora1  sen- 
timent of  the  woi  Id  that  she  typified,  to  do,  or  connive  at,  an 
which  degrades  the  gentlewoman.     Putting  her  aside,  what  o 
female   enemy   had   Lilian  provoked  i     No  matter !      What  ot 
WOntan  at  L was  worth  the  condescension  of  a  conjecture  ! 

After  listening  to  all  that  the  ablest  of  my  professional  brethren 
in  the  metropolis  could  suggest  to  guide  me,  and  trying  in  \    in 

their  remedies,  I  brought  hack  my  charge  to  L .     Retaining 

my  former  residence  for  the  visits  of  patients,  I  engaged, for  the 
privacy  of  my  home,  a  house  two  miles  from  the  town,  secluded 
in  its  own  grounds,  and  guarded  l>y  high  walls. 

Lilian's  mother  removed  to  my  mournful  dwelling -place.  Ab- 
bots' House,  in  the  centre  of  that  tattling  coterie,  had  become  dis- 
tasteful to  ber,and  to  meif.  was  associated  with  thoughts  of  anguish 
and  of  terror.  I  could  not,  without  a  shudder,  have  entered  its 
grounds — could  not,  without  a  stab  at  the  heart,  have  seen  gain 
the  old  fairy  land  round  the  Monk's  Well,  nor  the  dark  cedar- 
tree  under  which  Lilian's  hand  had  been  placed  in  mine.  And  a 
superstitious  remembrance,  banished  while  Lilian's  angel  face  had 
brightened  the  fatal  precincts,  now  revived  in  full  force.  The  dy- 
ing man's  curse— had  it  not  keen  fulfilled! 

A  new  occupant  for  the  old  house  was  found  within  a  week  after 

Mrs.  Ashleigh  had  written  from  London  to  a  house  agent  at  L , 

intimating  her  desire  to  dispose  of  the  lease.  Shortly  before  we 
had  gone  to  Windermere,  Miss  Brabazon  had  become  enriched  by 
a  libera1  life  annuity  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  uncle,  Sir  Phelim. 
Her  means  thus  enabled  her  to  move,  from  the  comparatively  bum- 
ble lodging  she -had  hitherto  occupied,  to  Abbots'  House;  but  just 
as  she  had  there  commenced  a  series  of  ostentatious  entertain- 
nients,  implying  an  ambitious  desire  to  dispute  with  Mrs.  POyntz 
the  sovreignty  of  the  Hill,  she  was  attacked  by  some  severe 
malady  which  appeared  complicated  with  spinal  disease,  and  after 
my  return  to  L I  sometimes  met  her,  on  the  spacious  plat- 
form of  the  hill,  drawn  along  slowly  in  a  Bath  chair,  her  livid 
face  peering  forth  from  piles  of  Indian  shawls  and  Siberian  furs, 
and  the  gaunt  figure  of  Dr.  Jones  stalking  by  her  side,  taciturn 
and  gloomy  as  some  sincere  mournef  who  conducts  to  the  grave 
the  patron  on  whose  life  he  had  conveniently  lived  himself.     It 

was  in  the  dismal  month  of  February  that  I  returned  to  L ,  and 

I  took  possession  of  my  blighted  nuptial  home  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  very  day  in  which  1  had  passed  through  the  dead  dumb 
world  hum  the  naturalist's  gloomy  death-room. 


260  A    STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

Lilian's  wondrous  gentleness  of  nature  did  not  desert  her  in  the 
suspension  of  her  reason.  She  was  habitually  calm — very  silent; 
when  she  spoke  it  was  rarely  on  earthly  things — on  things  familiar 
to  her  past — things  one  could  comprehend.  Her  thought  seemed 
to  have  quitted  the  earth,  seeking  refuge  in  someimaginary  heaven. 
She  spoke  of  wanderings  with  her  father  as  if  he  were  living  still; 
she  did  not  seem  to  understand  the  meaning  we  attach  to  the 
word  Death.  She  would  sit  for  hours  murmuring  to  herself;  when 
one  sought,  to  catch  the  words,  they  seemed  iu  converse  with  in- 
visible spirits.  We  found  it  cruel  to  disturb  her  at  such  times, 
for  if  left  unmolested  her  face  was  serene — more  serenely  beauti- 
ful than  I  had  seen  it  even  in  our  happiest  hours;  but  when  we 
called  her  back  to  the  wrecks  of  her  real  life,  her  eye  became 
troubled,  restless,  anxious,  and  she  would  sigh — oh,  so  heavily  ! 
At  times,  if  we  did  not  seem  to  observe  her,  she  would  quietly  re- 
sume her  once  favorite  accomplishments — drawing,  music.  And 
in  these,  her  young  excellence  was  still  apparent,  only  the  draw- 
ings were  strange  and  fantastic  :  they  had  a  resemblance  to  those 
with  which  the  painter  Blake,  himse  f  a  visionary,  illustrated  the 
Poems  of  the  "Night  Thoughts"  and  "The  Grave."  Faces  of 
exquisite  loveliness,  forms  of  serial  grace,  coming  forth  from  the 
bells  of  flowers,  or  floating  upwards  amidst  the  spray  of  fountains, 
their  outlines  melting  away  in  fountain  or  in  flower.  So  with  her 
music;  her  mother  could  not  recognize  the  airs  she  played,  for  a 
while  so  sweetly  and  with  so  ineffable  a  pathos,  that  one  could 
scarcely  hear  her  without  weeping;  and  then  would  come,  as  if 
involuntarily,  an  abrupt  discord,  and,  starting,  she  would  cease  and 
look  around,  disquieted,  aghast. 

And  still  she  did  not  recognize  Mrs.  Ashleigh  nor  myself,  as  her 
mother,  her  husband;  but  she  had  by  degrees  learned  to  distin- 
guish us  both  from  others.  To  her  mother  she  gave  no  name, 
seemed  pleased  to  see  her,  but  not  sensibly  to  miss  her  when 
away  ;  me  she  called  her  brother :  if  longer  absent  than  usual,  me 
she  missed.  When,  after  the  toils  of  the  day,  I  came  to  join  her, 
even  if  she  spoke  not,  her  sweet  face  brightened.  When  she  sang, 
she  beckoned  me  to  come  near  to  her,  and  looked  at  me  fixedly, 
with  her  eyes  ever  tender,  often  teaiful ;  when  she  drew,  she  would 
pause  and  glance  over  her  shoulder  to  see  that  I  was  watching  her, 
and  point  to  the  drawings  with  a  smile  of  strange  significance,  as 
if  they  conveyed,  in  some  covert  allegory,  messages  meant  for 


A   STRANGE    STORY.  261 

me ;  so,  at  least,  I  interpreted  her  smile,  and  taught  myself  to 
say,  "  Yes,  Lilian,  I  understand  !  " 

And  more  than  once,  when  I  had  so  answered,  she  rose  and 
kissed  my  forehead.  I  thought  my  heart  would  have  broken  when 
I  felt  that  spirit-like  melancholy  kiss. 

And  yet  how  marvelously  the  human  mind  teaches  itself  to  ex- 
tract consolation  from  its  sorrows.  The  least  wretched  of  my 
hours  were  those  that  I  passed  in  that  saddened  room,  seeking  how 
to  establish  fragments  of  intercourse,  invent  signs,  by  which  each 
might  interpret  each,  between  the  intellect  I  had  so  laboriously 
cultured,  so  arrogantly  vaunted,  and  the  fancies  wandering  through 
the  dark,  deprived  of  their  guide  in  reason.  It  was  something  even 
of  joy  to  feel  myself  needed  for  her  guardianship,  endeared  and 
yearned  for  still  by  some  unshattered  instinct  of  her  heart ;  and 
when,  parting  from  her  for  the  night,  I  stole  the  moment  in  which 
on  her  soft  face  seemed  resting  least,  of  shadow,  ask,  in  a  trembling 
whisper,  "  Lilian,  are  the  angels  watching  over  you?"  and  she 
would  answer,  "Yes,"  sometimes  in  words,  sometimes  with  a 
mysterious  happy  smile — then — then  I  went  to  my  lonely  room, 
comforted  and  thankful. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


The  blow  that,  had  fallen  on  my  hearth  effectually,  inevitably 
killed  all  the  slander  that  might  have  troubled  me  in  joy.  Before 
the  awe  of  a  great  calamity  the  small  passions  of  a  mean  malig- 
nity slink  abashed.  I  had  requested  Mrs.  Ashleigh  not  to  men- 
tion the  vile  letter  which  Lilian  had  received.  I  would  not  give 
a  triumph  to  the  unknown  calumniator,  nor  wring  forth  her  vain 
remorse,  by  the  pain  of  acknowledging  an  indignity  to  my  dar- 
ling's honor ;  yet,  somehow  or  other,  the  true  cause  of  Lilian's 
affliction  had  crept  out — perhaps  through  the  talk  of  servauts — 
and  the  Public  shock  was  universal.  By  one  of  those  instincts  of 
justice  that  lie  deep  in  human  hearts,  though  in  ordinary  moments 
overlaid  by  many  a  worldly  layer,  all  felt  (all  mothers  felt,  espe- 
cially) that  innocence  alone  could  have  been  so  unprepared  for 
reproach.  The  explanation  I  had  previously  given,  discredited 
then,  was  now  accepted  without  a  question.  Lilian's  present  state 
accounted  for  all  that  ill-nature  had  before  misconstrued.  Hor 
good  name  was  restored  to  its  maiden  whiteness  by  the  fate  that 
had  severed  the  ties  of  the  bride.  The  formal  dwellers  on  the 
Hill  vied  with  the  franker,  warm-hearted  households  of  Low 
Town  in  the  uamelebs  attentions  by  which  sympathy  and  respect 


262  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

are  rather  delicately  indicated  than  noisily  proclaimed.  Could 
Lilian  have  then  recovered  and  been  sensible  of  its  repentant 
homage,  how  reverently  that  petty  world  would  have  thronged 
around  her.  And,  ah  !  could  fortune  and  man's  esteem  have 
atoned  for  the.  blight  of  hopes  that  had  been  planted  and  cherished 
on  ground  beyond  their  reach,  ambition  and  pride  might  have  been 
well  contented  with  the  largeness  of  the  exchange  that  courted 
their  acceptance.  Patients  on  patients  crowded  on  me.  Sympathy 
with  my  sorrow  seemed  to  create  and  endear  a  more  trustful  belief 
iu  my  skill.  But  the  profession  1  had  once  so  enthusiastically 
loved  became  to  me  wearisome,  insipid,  distasteful ;  the  kindness 
heaped  upon  me  gave  no  comfort,  it  but  brought  before  me  more 
vividly  the  conviction  that  it  came  too  late  to  avail  me  ;  it  could 
not  restore  to  me  the  mind,  the  love,  the  life  of  my  life,  which  lay 
dark  ami  shattered  in  the  brain  of  my  guileless  Lilian.  Secretly  I 
felt  a  sullen  resentment.  I  knew  that  to  the  crowd  the  resentment 
was  unjust.  The  world  itself  is  but  an  appearance  ;  who  can 
blame  it  appearances  guide  its  laws  ?  But  to  those  who  had  been 
detached  from  the  crowd  by  the  professions  of  friendship — those 
who,  when  the  slander  was  yet  new,  and  might  have  been  awed 
into  silence  had  they  stood  by  my  side, — to  the  pressure  of  their 
hands,  now,  1  had  no  response. 

Against  Mrs.  Poyntz,  above  all  others,  I  bore  a  remembrance  of 
unrelaxed,  unuiitigatable  indignation.  Her  schemes  for  her  daugh- 
ter's marriage  had  triumphed  :  Jane  was  Mrs.  Ashlcigh  Sumner. 
Her  mind  was,  perhaps,  softened  now  that  the  object  which  had 
sharpened  its  worldly  faculties  was  accomplished  ;  but  in  vain,  on 
first  hearing  of  my  affliction,  had  this  she  Machiavel  owned  a 
humane  remorse,  and  with  all  her  keen  comprehension  of  each  fa- 
cility that  circumstances  gave  to  her  will,  availed  herself  of  the 
general  compassion  to  strengthen  the  popular  reaction  in  favor  of 
Lilian's  assaulted  honor — in  vain  had  she  written  to  me  with  a 
gentleness  of  sympathy  foreign  to  her  habitual  characteristics — 
in  vain  besought  me  to  call  on  her — in  vain  waylaid  and  accosted 
me  with  a  humility  that  almost  implored  forgiveness;  I  vouch- 
safed no  reproach,  but  I  could  imply  no  pardon.  I  put  between 
her  and  my  great  sorrow  the  impenetrable  wall  of  my  freezing 
silence. 

One  word  of  hers  at  the  time  that  I  had  so  pathetically  besought 
her  aid,  and  the  parrot-flock  that  repeated  her  very  whisper  in 
noisy  shrill ness,  would  have  been  as  loud  to  defend  as  it  had  been 
to  defame  ;  that  vile  letter  might  never  have  been  written.  Who- 
ever its  writer,  it  surely  was  one  of  the  babblers  who  took  their 
malice  itself  from  the  jest  or  the  nod  of  their  female  despot;  and 
the  writer  might  have  justified  herself  in  saying  she  did  but  coarse- 
ly proclaim  what  the  oracle  of  worldly  opinion,  and  the  early  friend 
of  Lilian's  own  mother,  had  authorized  her  to  believe. 

By  degrees,  the  bitterness  at  my  heart  diffused  itself  to  the  cir- 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  263 

cumference  of  the  circle  in  which  my  life  went  its  cheerless  me- 
chanical round.  That  cordial  brotherhood  with  his  patients,  which 
is  the  true  physician's  happiest  gift  affd  huihanest  duty,  forsook 
my  breast  The  warning  words  of  Mrs.  Poyntz  had  come  true. 
A  patient  that  monopolized  my  thoughts  awaited  me  at  my  own 
hearth !  INIy  conscience  became  troubled;  I  felt  that  my  skill 
was  lessened.  I  said  to  myself,  "  The  physician  who,  on  enter- 
ing the  sick  room,  feels,  while  there,  something  that  distracts  the 
finest  powers  of  his  intellect  from  the  sufferer's  case,  is  unfit  for 
his  falling."  A  year  had  scarcely  passed  since  my  fatal  wedding- 
day,  before  I  had  formed  a  resolution  to  quit  L ,  and  abandon 

my  profession;  and  my  resolution  was  confirmed,  and  my  goal 
determined,  by  a  letter  I  received  from  Julius  Faber. 

I  had  written  at  length  to  him,  not  many  days  after  the  blow 
thai  had  fallen  on  me.  stating  all  circumstances  as  calmly  and 
clearly  as  my  grief  would  allow,  for  I  held  his  skill  at.  a  higher  esti- 
mate than  that  of  any  living  brother  of  my  art,  and  I  was  not 
without  hope  in  the  efficacy  el'  his  advice.  The  letter  1  now  re- 
ceived from  him  had  been  begun,  and  continued  at  some  length, 
before  my  communication  reached  him.  And  this  earlier  portion 
contained  animated  aud  cheerful  descriptions  of  his  Australian 
life  and  home,  which  contrasted  with  the  sorrowful  tone  of  the 
supplement  written  in  reply  to  the  tidings  with  which  1  had  wrung 
his  friendly  and  tender  heart.  In  this,  the  latter  part  of  his  let- 
ter, he  suggested  that  if  time  had  wrought  no  material  change  for 
the  better,  it  might  lie  advisable  to  try  the  effect  of  foreign  travel. 
Scenes  entirely  new  might  stimulate  observation,  and  the  observa- 
tion of  things  external  withdraw  the  sense  from  that  brooding  over 
images  delusively  formed  within,  which  characterized  the  kind  of 
mental  alienation  I  had  described.  "  Let  any  intellect  create  for 
itself  a  visionary  world,  and  all  reasonings  built  on  it  are  falla- 
cious ;  the  visionary  world  vanishes  in  proportion  as  we  can  arouse 
a  predominant  interest  in  the  actual." 

This  grand  authority,  who  owed  half  his  consummate  skill  as  a 
practitioner  to  the  scope  of  his  knowledge  as^  a  philosopher,  then 
proceeded  to  give  me  a  hope  winch  1  had  not  dared,  of  myself,  to 
f.  iiu.  He  said,  "1  distinguish  the  case  you  so  minutely  detail 
from  that  insanity  which  is  reason  lost, ;  here  It  seems  rather  to  be 
reason  held  in  suspense.  Where  (here  is  hereditary  predisposi- 
tion, where  there  is  organic  change  of  structure  in  the  brain — nay, 
where  there  is  that  kind  of  insanity  which  takes  the  epithet  of 
moral,  whereby  the  whole  character  becomes  so  transformed  that 
the  prime  element  of  sound  Understanding,  conscience  itself,  is 
either  erased  or  warped  into  the  sanction  of  what,  in  a  healthful 
state,  it  w<Uild  most  disapprove,  it  is  only  charlatans  who  promise 
effectual  cure.  Hut  here  I  assume  that  there  is  no  hereditary 
taint  ;  here  1  am  convinced,  from  my  own  observation,  that  the 
nobility  of  the  organs,  all  fresh  as  yet  in  the  vigor  of  youth,  would 


264  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

•rather  -submit  to  death  than  to  the  permanent.overthrow  of  their 
equilibrium  in  reason  ;  here,  where  you  tell  me  the  character  pre- 
serves all  its  moral  attributes  of  gentleness  and  purity,  and  but 
over-indulges  its  own  early  habit  of  estranged  contemplation  ; 
here  without  deceiving  you  in  false  kindness,  I  give  you  the*  guar- 
antee of  my  experience  when  I  bid  you  'hope  !'  I  am  persuaded 
that  sooner  or  later,  the  mind,  thus  for  a  time  affected,  will  right 
itself;  because  here,  in  the  course  of  the  malady,  we  do  but  deal 
with  the  nervous  system.  And  that,  once  righted,  and  the  mind 
once  disciplined  in  those  practical  duties  which  conjugal  life  neces- 
sitates, the  malady  itself  will  never  return  ;  never  be  transmitted 
to  the  children,  on  whom  your  wife's  restoration  to  health  may 
permit  you  to  cpunt  hereafter.  If  the  course  of  travel  I  recom- 
nitni!  and  (he  prescriptions  I  conjoin  with  that  course  fail  you,  let 
me  know  ;  and  though  I  would  fain  close  my  days  in  this  land,  I 
will  come  to  you.  I  love  you  as  my  son.  I  will  tend  your  wife  as 
my  daughter." 

Foreign  travel  !  The  idea  smiled  on  me.  Julius  Faber's  com- 
panionship, sympathy,  matchless  skill  !  The  very  thought  seemed 
as  a  raft  to  a  drowning  mariner.  I  now  read  more  attentively  the 
earlier  portions  of  his  letter.  They  described,  in  glowing  colors, 
the  wondrous  country  in  which  he  had  fixed  his  home  ;  the  joyous 
elasl icily  of  its  atmosphere  ;  the  freshness  of  its  primitive  pasto- 
ral life  ;  the  strangeness  of  its  scenery,  with  a  Flora  and  a  Fauna 
which  have  no  similitudes  in  the  ransacked  quarters  of  the  Old 
World.  And  the  strong  impulse  seized  me  to  transfer  to  the  sol- 
itudes of  that  blithesome  and  hardy  Nature  a  spirit  no  longer  at 
home  in  the  civilized  haunts  of  men,  and  household  gods  that 
shrunk  from  all  social  eyes,  and  would  fain  have  found  a  wilder- 
ness for  llie  desolate  hearth,  on  which  they  had  ceased  to  be  sabred 
if  unveikd.  As  if  to  give  practical  excuse  and  reason  for  the 
idea  that  seized  me,  Julius  Faber  mentioned,  incidentally,  that  the 
house  and  property  of  a  wealthy  speculator  in  his  immediate  neigh- 
borhood were  on  sale  at  a  price  which  seemed  to  me  alluringly  tri- 
vial, and,  according  to  his  judgment,  far  below  the  value  they 
would  soon  reach  in  the  hands  of  a  more  patient  capitalist.  He 
wrote  at  the  period  of  the  agricultural  panic  in  the  colony  which 
preceded  the  discovery  of  its  earliest  gold  fields.  But  his  geolog- 
ical science  had  convinced  him  that  strata'  within  and  around 
the  property  now  for  sale  were  auriferous,  and  his  intelligence  ena- 
bled him  to  predict  how  inevitably  man  would  be  attracted  toward 
the  gold,  and  how  surely  the  gold  would  fertilize  the  soil  and  en- 
rich its  owners.  He  described  the  house  thus  to  be  sold — in  case 
I  might  know  of  a  purchaser  ;  it  had  been  built  at  a  cost  unusual 
in  those  early  times,  and  by  one  who  clung  to  English  tastes 
amidst  Australian  wilds,  so,  that  in  this  purchase  a  settler  would 
escape  the  hardships  he  had  then  ordinarily  to  encounter  ;  it  was,  in 
short,  a  home  to  which  a  man,  more  luxurious  than  I,  might  bear 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  265 

a  bride  with  wants  less  simple  than   those  which  now  sufficed  for 
my  darling  Lilian. 

This  communication  dwelt  on  my  mind  through  the  avocations 
of  the  day  on  which  1  received  it.  and  in  the  evening-  1  read  all, 
except  the  supplement,  aloud  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh  in  her  daughter's 
presence.  I  desired  to  see  if  Fahcr's  description  of  the  country 
and  its  life,  which  in  themselves  were  extremely  spirited  and  stri- 
king, would  arouse  Lilian's  interest.  At  first  she  did  not  seem  to 
heed  me  while  1  read,  hut  when  I  came  to  Faber's  loving  account 
of  little  Amy.  Lilian  turned  her  eyes  towards  me,  and  evidently 
listened  with  attention,  lie  wrote  how  the  Child  had  already 
come  the  most  useful  person  in  the  simple  household.  How  watch- 
ful the  quickness  of  the  heart  had  made  the  service  of  the  eye; 
all  their  associations  of  comfort  had  grown  round  her  active 
noiseless  movements  ;  it  was  she  who  had  contrived  to  monopo- 
lize the  management,  or  supervision  of  all  that  .added  to  Home 
the  nameless  interior  charm  ;  under  her  eyes  the  rude  furniture  of 
the  log-house  grew  inviting  with  English  neatness;  she  took 
charge  of  the  dairy;  she  had  made  the  garden  gay  with  flowers 
selected  from  the  wild,  and  suggested  the  tivlliscd  walk,  already 
covered  with  hardy  vine  ;  she  was  their  confidant  in  every  plan  of 
improvement,  their  comforter  in  every  anxious  doubt,  their  nurse 
in  every  passing  ailment  ;  her  very  smile  a  refreshment  in  the 
the  weariness  of  daily  toil.  '•  How  all  that  is  best  in  womanhood," 
wrote  the  old  man,  with  the  enthusiasm  which  no  time  had  reft 
from  his  hearty  healthful  genius,  "  I  low  all  that  is  best  in  woman- 
hood is  here  opening  fast  into  flower  from  the  hud  of  the  infant's 
soul  !  The  atmosphere  seems  to  suit  it — the  child-woman  in  the 
child-world!" 

I  heard    Lilian    sigh ;    I  looked  towards   her  furtively  ;    tears 
stood  in   her  softened  eyes;  her    lip  was  quivering.     Presently, 
she  began  to  rub  her  right  hand  over  the  left — over  the  wedding- 
ring — at  first,  slowly  ;  then  with  quicker  movement. 
.  "  It-is  not  here."  she  said  impatiently  ;  "  it  is  not  here  !" 

"  What  is  not  here  !"  asked  Mrs.  Ashleigh,  hanging  over  her. 

Lilian  leant  her  head  back  on  her  mother's  bosom,  and  answered 
faintly  : 

"  The  stain  !  some  one  said  there  was  a  stain  on  this  hand.  I 
do  not  see  it — do  you  ?" 

"There  is  no  stain,  never  was,"  said  I;  "  the  hand  is  white  as 
your  own  innocence,  or  the  lily  from  which  you  take  your  name." 

"Hush  !  you  do  not  know  my  name.  1  will  whisper  it.  Soft! 
— my  name  is  Nightshade  !  Do  you  want  to  know  where  the  lily 
is  now,  brother.'  I  will  tell  you.  There,  in  that  letter — you  call 
her  Amy — she  is  the  lily — take  her  to  your  breasl — hide  her. — 
Hist  !   what  are.  those  bells  \      Marriage-beds.      Do    not    let  her 


266  A    STRANGE    STORT. 

bear  them.     For  there  is  a  cruel  wind  that  whispers  the  bells,  and 
the  bells  ring  out  what  it  whispers,  louder  and  louder, 

'  Stain  on  lily, 
Shame  on  lily, 
Wither  lily.' 

"  If  she  hears  what  the  wind  whispers  to  the  bells,  she  will  creep 
away  into  the  dark,  and  then  she,  too,  will  turn  to  Nightshade.1'' 

"  Lilian,  look  up,  awake !  You  have  been  in  a  long,  long 
dream :  it  is  passing  away.  Lilian,  my  beloved,  my  blessed 
Lilian  !  " 

Never  till  then  had  I  heard  from  her  even  so  vague  an  allusion 
to  the  fatal  calumny,  and  its  dreadful  effect ;  and  while  her  words 
now  pierced  my  heart,  it  beat,  amongst  its  pangs,  with  a  thrilling 
hope. 

But,  alas  !  The  idea  that  had  gleamed  upon  her  had  vanished 
already.  She  murmured  something  about  Circles  of  Fire,  and  a 
Veiled  "Woman  in  black  garments;  became  restless,  agitated, 
and  unconscious  of  our  presence,  and  finally  sank  into  a  heavy 
sleep! 

That  night  (my  room  was  next  to  hers  with  the  intervening  door 
open),  I  heard  her  cry  out.  I  hastened  to  her  side.  She  was  still 
asleep,  but  there  was  an  anxious  laboring  expression  on  her  young 
face,  and  yet  not  an  expression  wholly  of  pain — for  her  lips  were 
parted  with  a  smile — that  glad  yet  troubled  smile  with  which  one 
who  has  been  revolving  some  subject  of  perplexity  or  fear,  greets 
a  sudden  thought  that  seems  to  solve  the  riddle,  or  prompt  the 
escape  from  danger ;  and  as  I  softly  took  her  hand  she  returned 
my  gentle  pressure,  and  inclining  towards  me,  said,  still  in  sleep, 

"  Let  us  go."  .  • 

"Whither?"  I  answered,  under  my  breath,  so  as  not  to  awake 
her  ;  "  is  it  to  see  the  child  of  whom  I  read,  and  the  land  that  is 
blooming  out  of  the  earth's  childhood  ?  " 

"Out  of  the  dark  into  the  light;  where  the  leaves  do  not 
change  :  where  the  night  is  our  day,  and  the  winter  our  summer. 
Let  us  go — let  us  go  !  " 

"  We  will  go.  Dream  on  undisturbed,  my  bride.  Oh,  that  the 
dream  could  tell  you  that  my  love  has  not  changed  in  our  sorrow, 
holier  and  deeper  thaif  on*  the  day  in  which  our  vows  were  ex- 
changed !  In  you  still  all  my  hopes  fold  their  wings  :  where  you 
are,  there  still  I  myself  have  my  dreamland  !  " 

The  sweet  face  grew  bright  as  I  spoke ;  all  trouble  left  the 
smile;  softly  she  drew  her  hand  from  my  clasp,  and  rested  it  for 
a  moment  on  my  bended  head,  as  if  in  blessing. 

I  rose  :  stole  back  to  my  own  room,  closing  the  door,  lest  the 
sob  1  could  not.  stifle  should  mar  her  sleep. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  267 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

I  unfolded  my  now  prospects  to  Mm  Ashleigh.  &he  was  inure 
easily  reconciled  In  them  than  1  could  have  Supposed,  judging 
her  habits,  which  were  naturally  indolent,  and  averse  to  all  thai 
disturbed  their  oven  tenor.  But  the  great  grief  which  had  befallen 
her  had  roused  up  that  strength  of  devotion  which  lies  dormant  in 
all  hearis  that  are  capable  of  loving-  another  more  than  self.  With 
her  full  consent  I  wrote  to  Faher,  communicating  my  intentions, 
instructing  trim  to  purchase  the  property  he  had  so  commended, 
and  inclosing  my  banker's  order  for  the  amount,  on  an  Australian 
firm.  1  now  announced  my  intention  to  retire  from  my  profession  ; 
made  prompt  arrangement  with  a  successor  to  my  practice;  dis- 
posed of  my  two  houses  at  L ;  fixed  the  day  of  my  departure. 

Vanity  was  dead  wilhin  me,  or  1  might  have  been  gKatifii 
sensation  which  the  news  of  my  design  created.  My  faults  became 
at  once  forgotten;  such  good  qualities  as  I  might  possess  were 
exaggerated:  The  public  regret  vented  and  consoled  itself  in  a 
ly  testimonial,  to  which  even  the  poorest  of  my  patients  insist- 
ed on  the  privilege  to  contribute,  graced  with  an  inscription  flatter- 
ing enough  to  have  served  for  the  epitaph  on  some  great  man's 
tomb.  No  one  who  has  served  an  art  and  striven  for  a  name,  is  a 
Stoic  to  the  esteem  of  others,  and  sweet  indeed  would  such  honors 
have  been  to  me  had  not  publicity  itself  seemed  a  wrong  to  the 
sanctity  of  that  affliction  which  set  Lilian  apart  from  the  movement 
and  the  glories  of  the  world. 

The  two  persons  most  active  in  "getting  up  "  this  testimonial 
were,  nominally,  Colonel  1'ovniz — in  truth,  his  wife — and  my  old 
disparager,  Mr.  vigors!  It  is  a  long  time  since  my  narrative  has 
referred  to  Mr.  Vigors.  It  is  due  to  him  now  to  state,  in  his  capa- 
city of  magistrate,  and  in  his  own  way,  he  had  been  both  active 
and  delicate  in  the  inquiries  set  on  foot  for  Lilian  during  the  Un- 
happy time  in  which  she  had  wandered,  spellbound,  from  her 
home.  He.  alone  of  all  the  more  influential  magnates  of  the  town, 
had  upheld  her  innocence  against  the  gossip  that  aspersed  it;    and 

during  the  last  trying  year  of  my  residence  at  L .  he  had  sought 

me  with  frank  and  manly  confessions  of 'his  regret  for  his  former 
prejudice  againsl  me,  and  assurances  'of  the  respect  in  which  he 
tiad  held  me  ever  since  my  marriage — marriage  but  in  rite — with 
Lilian.  He  had  then,  strong  in  his  ruling  passion,  besought  me  to 
consult  his  clairvoyants  as  to  her  case.  1  declined  this  invitat 
so  as  not  to  affront  him — declined  it.  not  as  i  should  once  have 
done,  but  with  no  word  nor  look  of  incredulous  disdain.     The  fact 


268  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

was,  that  I  had  conceived  a  solemn  terror  of  all  practices  and 
theories  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  sense  and  science.  Perhaps  in 
my  refusal  I  did  wrong.  I  know  not.  I  was  afraid  of  my  own 
imagination.  He  continued  not  less  friendly  in  spite  of  my  refusal. 
And,  such  are  the  vicissitudes  of  human  feeling,  I  parted  from  him 
whom  I  had  regarded  as  my  most  bigoted  foe,  with  a  warmer  sen- 
timent of  kindness  than  for  any  of  those  on  whom  I  had  counted  on 
friendship.  He  had  not  deserted  Lilian.'  It  was  not  so  with  Mrs. 
Poyutz.  I  would  have  paid  tenfold  the  value  of  the  testimonial  to 
have  erased,  from  the  list  of  those  who  subscribed  to  it,  her  hus- 
band's name. 

The  day  before  I  quitted  L ,  and  some  weeks  after  I  had,  in 

fact,  renounced  my  [tract ice,  I  received  an  urgent  entreaty  from 
Miss  Brabazon  to  call  on  her.  She  wrote  in  lines  so  blurred  that 
I  could  with  difficulty  decipher  them,  that  she  was  very  ill,  given 
over  by  Dr.  Jones,  who  had  been  attending  her.  She  implored 
my  opinion. 


I 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

On  reaching  the  house,  a  formal  man-servant,  with  indifferent 
face,  transferred  me  to  the  guidance  of  a  hired  nurse,  who  led  me 
up  the  stairs,  and,  before  1  was  well  aware  of  it,  into  the  room  in 
which  Dr.  Lloyd  had  died.  Widely  different,  indeed,  the  aspect  of 
the  walls,  the  character  of  the  furniture.  The  dingy  paper-haug- 
ings  were  replaced  by  airy  muslins,  showing  a  rose-colored  ground 
through  their  fanciful  open-work ;  luxurious  fauteuils,  gilded  ward- 
robes, full-length  mirrors,  a  toilet-table  tricked  out  with  lace  and 
ribbons,  and  glittering  with  an  array  of  silver  gewgaws  and  jew- 
eled trinkets, — all  transformed  the  sick  chamber  of  the  simple  man 
of  science  to  a  boudoir  of  death  for  the  vain  coquette.  But  the 
room  itself,  in  its  high  lattice  and  heavy  ceiling  was  the  same — as 
the  coffin  itself  has  the  same  confines  whether  it  be  rich  in  velvets 
and  bright  with  blazoning,  or  rude  as  the  pauper's  shell. 

And  the  bed,  with  its  silken  coverlid,  and  its  pillows  edged  with 
the  thread-work  of  Louvain,  stood  in  the  same  sharp  angle  as  that 
over  which  had  flickered  the  frowning  smoke-reek  above  the  dying 
resentful  foe.  As  I  approached,  a  man,  who  was  seated  beside  the 
sufferer,  turned  round  his  face,  and  gave  me  a  silent  kindly  nod  of 
recognition.  He  was  Mr.  C,  one  of  the  clergy  of  the  town,  the 
one  with  whom  I  had  the  most  frequently  come  into  contact 
wherever  the  physician  resigns  to  the  priest  the  language  that  bids 
man  hope.  Mr.  C,  as  a  preacher,  was  renowned  for  his  touching 
eloqeunce ;  as  a  pastor,  revered  for  his  benignant  piety  ;  as  friend 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  269 

and  neighbor,  beloved  for  a  sweetness  of  nature  which  seemed  to 
regulate  all  the  movements  of  a  mind  eminently  masculine  by  the 
beat  of  a  heart  tender  as  the  gentlest  woman's. 

This  good  man,  then  whispering  something  to  the  sufferer  which 

I  did  not  overhear,  stole  towards  me,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
said,  also  in  a  Whisper,  "Be  merciful  as  Christians  are."  lie  led 
me  to  the  bedside,  there  left,  me,  went  out,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  really  dying.  Dr.  Fenwick  V  said  a  feeble 
voice.  / 

"  I  fear  Dr.  Jones  has  misunderstood  my  case.  1  wish  I  had 
called  you  in  at  the  first,  but — but  1  could  not — I  could  not  !  Will 
yon  feel  my  pulse  !     Don't  you  think-  you  could  do  me  good  ?" 

I  had  no  need  to  feel  the  pulse  in  that  skeleton  wrist  ;  the  aspect 
of  the  face  sufficed  to  tell  me  that  death  was  drawing  near. 

Mechanically,  however.  I  went  through  the  hackneyed  formula* 
of  professional  questions.  This  vain  ceremony  done  ;  as  gently 
and  delicately  as  1  could,  I  implied  the  expediency  of  concluding, 
if  not  yet  settled,  those  affairs  which  relate  to  this  world. 

"  This  duty,"  1  said,  "in  relieving  the  mind  from  cares  for  others 
to  whom  we  owe  the  forethought  of  affection,  often  relieves  the 
body  also  of  many  a  gnawing  pain,  and  sometimes,  to  the  surprise 
of  the  most  experienced  physician,  prolongs  life  itself." 

"Ah,"  said  the  old  maid,  peevishly,  "I  understand!  But  it  is 
not  my  will  that  troubles  me.  I  should  not  be  left  to  a  nurse  from 
a  hospital  if  my  relations  did  not  know  that  my  annuity  dies  with 
me;  and  I  forestalled  it  in  furnishing  this  house,  Dr.  Fenwick.  and 
all  these  pretty  things  will  be  sold  to  pay  those  horrid  tradesmen  ! 
, — very  hard  !  so  hard  ! — jusl  as  I  had  got  things  about  me  in  the 
way  I  always  said  I  would  have  them  if  1  could  ever  afford  it.  I 
always  said  I  would  have  my  bedroom  hung  with  muslin,  like  dear 
Lady  L.'S; — and  the  drawing-room  in  geranium-colored  silk:  so 
pretty.  You  have  not  seen  it :  you  would  not  know  the  house.  Dr. 
Fenwick.  And  just  when  all  is  finished,  to  lie  taken  away,  and 
thrust  into  the  grave.  It  is  so  cruel  !"  And  she  began  to  weep. 
Her  emotion  brought  on  a  violent  paroxysm,  which,  when  she  re- 
covered from  b-  bad  produced  one  of  those  startling  changes  of 
mind  that  are  sometimes  witnessed  before  death  :  changes  whereby 
the  whole  character  of  a  life  seems  to  undergo  solemn  transforma- 
tion. The  hard  will  become  gentle,  the  proud  meek,  the  frivolous 
earnest.  That  awful  moment  when  the  Ihings  of  earth  pass  away 
like  dissolving  scenes,  leaving  death  visible  on  the  back-ground  by 
glare  that  shoots  up  in  the  last  flicker  of  life's  lamp. 

As  when  she  lifted  her  haggard  face  from  my  shoulder,  ami 
heard  my  pitying,  soothing  voice,  it  was  not  a  grief  of  a  tritler  at 
the  loss  of  fondled  toys  that  spoke  in  the  falling  lines  of  her  lip,  in 
the  woe  of  her  pleading  eyes. 

"So  this  is  death,"  she  said.  "  I  feel  it  hurrying  on.  I  must 
speak.     I  promised  Mr.  0.  that  I  would.     Forgive  me,  can  you — 


270  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

can  you  1  That  letter — that  letter  to  Lilian  Ashleigh,  I  wrote  it ! 
Oh,  do  not  look  at  me  so  terribly  ;  I  never  thought  it  could  do  such 
evil !  And  am  I  not  punished  enough  1  I  truly  believed,  when  I 
wrote,  that  Miss  Ashleigh  was  deceiving  you,  and  once  I  was  silly 
enough  to  fancy  that  you  might  have  liked  me.  But  I  had  another 
motive:  I  had  been  so  poor  all  my  life — I  had  become  rich  unex- 
pectedly ;  I  set  my  heart  on  this  house — I  had  always  fancied  it — 
and  I  thought  if  1  could  prevent  Miss  Ashleigh  marrying  you,  and 
scare  l.er  and  her  mother  from  coming  back  to  L — ■. — ,  1  could  get 
the  house.  And  I  did  get  it.  Whal  for  1 — to  die.  I  had  not  been 
here  a  week  before  I  got  the  hurt  which  is  now  killing  me — a  fall 
down  the  stairs — coming  out  of  this  very  room;  the  stairs  had 
been  polished.  If  I  had  stayed  in  my  old  lodging,  it  would  not 
have  happened.'  Oh,  say  you  forgive  me!  Say,  say  it,  even  if 
you  do  not  feel  you  can  !  Say  it!"  And  the  miserable  woman 
grasped  me  by  the  arm  as  Dr.  Lloyd  had  grasped  me. 

I  shaded  my  averted  face  with  my  hand  ;  my  heart  heaved  with 
the  agony  of  my  supprest  passion.  A  wrong,  however  deep,  only 
to  myself,  I  cou  d  have  pardoned  without  effort ;  such  a  wrong  to 
Lilian, — no  !     1  could  not  say,  "I  forgive." 

The  dying  wretch  was,  perhaps,  more  appalled  by  my  silence 
than  she  would  have  been  by  my  reproach.  Her  voice  grew  shrill 
in  her  despair. 

"  You  wi.l  not  pardon  me  !  I  shall  die  with  your  curse  on  my 
head.  Mercy  !  mercy  !  That  good  man,  Mr.  0  ,  assured  me  that 
you  would  be  merciful.  Have  you,  never  wronged  another ?  Has 
the  Evil  One  never  tempted  you?" 

Then  1  spoke  in  broken  accents:  "Me!  Oh,  had  it  been  me 
you  defamed — but  a  young  creature  so  harmless,  so  unoffending, 
and  for  so  miserable  a  motive  !" 

"  But  1  tell  you,  1  swear  to  you,  I  never  dreamed  I  could  cause 
such  sorrow  :  and  thai  young  man,  that  Margrave,  put  it.  into  my 
head  !" 

Margrave!     He  had  left  L long  before  that  letter  was 

writ  1 1 

"  But  he  came  back  for  a  day  just;  before  I  wrote  ;  it  was  the 
very  day.  I  met  him  in  the  lane  yonder.  He  asked  after  you — after 
Miss  Ashleigh  ;  and  when  lie  spoke  he  laughed,  and  I  said,  '  Miss 
Ashleigh  had  been  ill,  and  was  gone  away  ;'  and  lie  laughed  again. 
And  1  thought,  he  knew  more  than  he  would  tell  me,  so  I  asked 
him  if  he  supposed  Mrs.  Ashleigh  would  come  back,  and  said  how 
much  I  should  like  to  take  this  house  if  she  did  not;  and  again  be 
laughed,  and  said,  'Birds  never  stay  in  the  nest  after  the  young 
ones  are  hurt/  and  went  away  singing.  When  I  got.  home,  his 
laugh  and  his  song  haunted  me.  I  thought  1  saw  him  still  in  my 
room,  prompting  me  to  write,  and  I  sat  down  and  wrote.  Oh, 
pardon,  pardon  me  !  I  have  been  a  foolish  poor  creature,  but 
never  meant  to  do  such  harm.   The  Evil  One  tempted  me  !  There 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  271 

he  is,  near  me  now  !  I  see  him  yonder !  there,  at  the  doorway  ! 
He  conies  to  claim  me  !  As  you  hope  for  mercy  yourself,  free  me 
from  him  !     Forgive  me  !" 

I  made  an  effort  over  myself.  In  naming  Margrave  as  her 
tempter,  the  woman  had  suggested  an  excuse  echoed  from  that 
innermost  cell  of  my  mind,  which  I  recoiled  from  gazing  into,  for 
there  I  should  hehold  his  image.  Inexpiable  though  the  injury 
she  had  wrought  against  me  and  mine,  still  the  woman  was  human 
— fel low-Creature — like  myself; — but  he  .' 

I  took  in  both  my  hands  the  hand  that  still  pressed  my  arm,  and 
said  with  a  firm  voice, 

"  Be  comforted.  In  the  name  of  Lilian,  my  wife,  I  forgive  you 
for  her  and  for  me  as  freely  and  as  fully  as  we  are  enjoined  by 
Him,  against  whose  precepts  the  best  of  us  daily  sin,  to  forgive — 
we  children  of  wrath — to  forgive  one  another  !" 

"  Heaven  bless  you  ! — oh,  bless  you  1"  she  murmured,  sinking 
back  upon  her  pillow. 

"  Ah  !"  thought  I,  "  what  if  the  pardon  I  grant  for  a  wrong  far 
deeper  than  I  inflicted  on  him  whose  imprecation  smote  me  in  this 
chamber,  should,  indeed,  he  received  as  atonement,  and  this 
blessing  on  the  lips  of  the  dying  annul  the  dark  curse  that  the  dead 
has  left  on  niv  path  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow!" 

I  left  my  patient  sleeping  quietly, — the  sleep  that  precedes  the 
last.  As  I  went  down  the  stairs  into  the  hall,  I  saw  Mrs.  Poyntz 
standing  at  the  threshold,  speaking  to  the  man-servant  and  the 
nurse. 

I  would  have  passed  her  with  a  formal  how,  hut  she  stopped  me. 

"  I  came  to  impure  after  poor  Miss  Brabazon,"  said  she.  ••  You 
can  tell  me  more  than  the  servants  can  :  is  ihere  no  hope  ?" 

"Let  the  nurse  go  up  and  watch  beside  her.  She  may  pass 
away  in  the  sleep  into  which  she  has  fallen." 

"Allen  Feiiwick,  I  must   speak  with  you — nay,  but  for  a  few 

minutes.     I  hear  that  you  leave  L to-morrow.     It  is  scarcely 

among  the  chances  of  life  that  we  should  meet  again."  While 
thus  saying,  she  drew  me  along  the  lawn  down  the  path  that  led 
towards  her  own  home.  "  I  wish,"  said  she,  earnestly,  L'thatyoU 
.could  part  with  a  kindlier  feeling  towards  me  ;  hut  I  can  scarcely 
expect  it.  Could  1  put  myself  in  your  place,  and  he  moved  by 
your  feelings,  I  know  that  I  should  he  implacable;   hut  I " 

••  Bui  you.  madam,  are  The  World  !  and  The  World  governs 
itself,  and  dictates  to  others,  by  laws  which  seem  harsh  to  those 
who  ask  from  its  favor  the  services  which  the  World  cannot  ten- 
der, for  the  World  admits  favorites  hut  ..ignores  friends.  You  did 
hut  act  to  me  as  the  World  ever  acts  to  those  who  mi3take  its 
favor  for  its  friendship." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Poyntz,  with  blunt  candor;  and  we  con- 
tinued to  walk  on  silently.  At  length  she  said,  abruptly,  "  But  do 
you  not  rashly  deprive  yourself  of  your  only  consolation  in  sor- 


272  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

row?  When  the  heart  suffers,  does  your  skill  admit  any  remedy 
like  occupation  to  the  mind  ?  Yet  you  abandon  that  occupation  to 
which  your  mind  is  most  accustomed ;  you  desert  your  career  ; 
you  turn  aside,  in  the  midst  of  the  race,  from  the  fame  which 
awaits  at  the  goal ;  you  go  back  from  civilization  itself,  and  dream 
that  all  your  intellectual  cravings  can  find  content  in  the  life 
of  a  herdsman,  amidst  the  monotony  of  a  wild  !  No,  you  will  re- 
pent, for  you  are  untrue  to  your  mind." 

"  I  am  sick  of  the  word  '  mind ! '  "  said  I,  bitterly.     And  there- 
with I  lvlapsed  into  musing. 

The  enigmas  which  had  foiled  my  intelligence  in  the  unraveled 
Sybil  Book  of  Nature  were  mysteries  strange  to  every  man's  nor- 
mal practice  of  thought,  even  if  reducible  to  the  fraudulent  impres- 
sions of  outward  sense.  For  illusions  in  a  brain  otherwise  healthy 
suggest  problems  in  our  human  organization  which  the  colleges 
that  record  them  rather  guess  at  than  solve.  But  the  blow  which 
had  shattered  my  life  had  been  dealt  by  the  hand  of  a  fool. — 
Here,  there  were  no  mystic  enchantments.  Motives  the  most 
common  -place  and  paltry,  suggested  to  a  brain  as  trivial  and  shal- 
low as  ever  made  the  frivolity  of  woman  a  theme  for  the  satire  of 
poets,  had  sufficed,  in  devastating  the  field  of  my  affections,  to 
blast  the  uses  for  which  I  had  cultured  my  mind;  and  had  my  in- 
tellect been  as  great  as  Heaven  ever  gave  to  man,  it  would  have 
been  as  vain  a  shield  as  mine  against  the  shaft  that  had  lodged  in 
my  heart.  While  I  had,  indeed,  been  preparing  my  reason  and 
my  fortitude  to  meet  such  perils,  weird  and  marvelous. as  those  by 
which  tales  round  the  winter  hearth  scare  the  credulous  child — a 
contrivance  so  vulgar  and  hackneyed  that,  not  a  day  passes  but 
what  some  hearth  is  vexed  by  an  anonymous  libel — had  wrought  a 
calamity  more  dread  than  aught  which  my  dark  guess  into  the 
Shadow-Land,  unpierced  by  Philosophy,  could  trace  to  the  prompt- 
ing of  malignant  witchcraft.  So  ever,  this  truth  runs  through  all 
legends  of  ghost  and  demon — through  the  uniform  records  of  what 
wonder  accredits  and  science  rejects  as  the  supernatural — lo  !  the 
dread  machinery  whose  wheels  roll  through  Hades!  What  need 
such  awfjul  engines  for  such  mean  results  ?  The  first  blockhead 
we  meet  in  our  walk  to  our  grocers  can  tell  us  more  than  the 
ghost  tells  us  ;  the  poorest  envy  we  ever  aroused  hurts  us  more 
than  the  demon  !  How  true  an  interpreter  is  Genius  to  Hell  as  to 
Earth.  The  Fiend  comes  to  Faust,  the  tired  seeker  of  knowledge  ; 
Heaven  and  Hell  stake  their  cause  in  the  Mortal's  temptation. 
And  what  does  the  Fiend  to  astonish  the  Mortal  1  Turn  wine 
into  fire,  turn  love  into  crime.  We  need  no  Mephistophels  to  ac- 
complish these  marvels  every  day  ! 

Thfi's  silently  thinking,  I  walked  by  the  side  of  the  world-wise 
woman  ;  and  when  she  next  spoke,  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  we 
were  at  the  Monk's  Well,  where  I  had  first  seen  Lilian  gazing  into 
heaven  ! 


A    PTKANOB    S'i'OKY.  ^7^ 

Mrs.  Poyntz  had,  as  we  walked,  placed  her  hand  on  my  arm.  and 
turning  abruptly  from  the  path  into  the  glaae,  I  found  myself 
standing  by  her  side,  in  the  scene  where  a  new  sense  of  being  had 
first  disclosed  to  my  sight  the  lines  with  which  Love,  the  passion- 
ate beautifier,  turns  into  purple  and  gold  the  gray  of  the  common 
air.  Thus,  when  romance  has  ended  in  sorrow,  and  the  Beautiful 
fades  from  the  landscape,  the  trite  and  positive  forms  of  life, 
banished  for  a  time,  reappear,  and  deepen  our  mournful  remem- 
brance of  the  glory  they  replace.  And  the  Woman  of  the  World, 
finding  how  little  I  was  induced  to  respond  to  her  when  she  had 
talked  of  myself,  began  to  speak  in  her  habitual,  clear,  ringing 
cents  of  her  own  social  schemes  and  devices: 

"  I  shall  miss  you  when  you  are  gone,  Allen  Fenwick,  for  though, 
during  the  last  year  or  so.  all  actual  intercourse  between  US  has 
:  my  interest  in  you  gave  some  occupation  to  my  thoughts, 
when  1  sal  alone — having  lost  my  main  object  of  ambition  in  set- 
tling my  daughter,  and  having  no  longer  any  one  in  tin1  house 
wiiii  whom  i  could  talk  of  the  future,  or  for  whom  I  could  form  a 
project.  H  is  so  wearisome  to  count  the  changes  which  pass  with- 
in us.  that  we  take  interest,  in  the  changes  that  parses  without. — 
Poyntz  still  lias  his  weather-glass  ;   1   have  no  longer  my  .Jane." 

••  I  cannot  linger  With  you  on  this  spot,"  said  I,  impatiently, 
turning  back  into  the    path;    she    followed,    treading  over  faHen 
leaves.     And  unheeding   my  interruption,  she  thus  continued  her 
alls : 

my  mind  as  you  seem  to  be  of  yours  ;  I 
am  only  somewhat  tired  of  the  little  cage  in  which,  since  h  has 
been  atone,  h  ruffles  its  piurnes  against  the  flimsy  wires  thai  con- 
fine it  from  wider  space.  I  shall  take  up  my  home  for  a  time  with 
the  new-married  couple:  they  want,  me.  Ashleigh  .Sumner  has 
come  into  Parliament,  lie  means  to  attend  regularly  and  work 
hard,  but  he  does  not  like  Jane  to  go  into  the  world  by  herself,  and 
he  wishes  her  to  go  into  the  world,  because  he  wants  a  Wife  to  dis- 
play his  wealth  for  the  improvement  of  his  position.  In  Ash 
ler's  house  I  shall  have  ample  scope  for  my  energies,  sue 
they  are.  I  have  a  curiosity  to  see  the  few  that  perch  on  the 
wheels  of  the.  Suite,  and  say,  '  It  is  we  who  move  the  wheels  !  ' 
ft  will  amuse  me  to  learn  if  I  can  maintain  in  a  capital  the  au- 
thority 1  have  won  in  a  country  town;  if  not,  1  can  but  return  to 
a  all  principality.  Wherever  I  live  I  must  sway,  no1  serve 
if  I  I    ought,  for  in  Jane's  beauty  and  Ashleigh's 

fortune  1  have  material  for  the  woof  of  ambition,  wanting  which 
here  1  fall  asleep  over  my  knitting — if  1  succeed,  there  will  be 
plough  to  o<  iipy  the  rest  of  my  life.  Ashleigh  Sumner  mm 
a  Power;  the  Power  will  be  represented  and  enjoyed  by  my  child, 
and  created  and  maintained  by  me  !  Allot  Fenwick,  do  as  I  do. 
Bo  world  with  the  world,  and  it  will  only  be  in  moments  of 
spleen  aud  chagrin  that  you  will  siyh  to  think  that  t.h«  heart  mav 
It 


§74  A    STRANG K    STOKY. 

he  void  when  the  mind  is  full.  Confess,  you  envy  ine  while  you 
listen." 

"  Not  so  ;  all  that  to  you  seems  so  great,  appears  to  me  so  small ! 
Nature  alone  is  always  grand,  in  her  terrors  as  well  as  her  charms. 
The  World  for  you;  Nature  for  me.     Farewell !" 

"  Nature,"  said  Mrs.  Poyutz,  oompassionately.  "  Poor  Allen 
Fenwick  !  Nature  indeed — intellectual  suicide  !  Nay,  shake 
hands,  then,  if  for  the  last  time." 

So  we  shook  hands  and  parted,  where  the  wicket-gate  and  the 
stone  stairs  separated  my  blighted  fairyland  from  the  common 
thoroughfare. 


CHAPTER   LXVIII. 

That  night,  as  I  was  employed  in  collecting  the  books  and 
manuscript  which  I  proposed  to  take  with  me,  including  my  long- 
suspended  physiological  work,  and  such  standard  authorities  as  1 
might  want  to  consult  or  refer  to  in  the  portions  yet  incompleted, 
my  servant  entered  to  inform  me,  in  answer  to  the  inquiries  1  had 
sent  him  to  make,  that  Miss  Brabazon  had  peacefully  breathed  her 
last  an  hour  before.  Well  !  my  pardon  had  perhaps  soothed  her 
last  moments  ;  but  how  unavailing  her  death-bed  repentance  to 
undo  the  wrong  she  had  done  ! 

I  turned  from  that  thought,  and  glancing  at  the  work  into  which 
1  had  thrown  all  my  learning,  methodized  into  system  with  all  my 
art,  1  recalled  the  pity  which  Mrs.  Poyntz  had  expressed  for  my 
meditated  waste  of  mind.  The  tone  of  superiority  which  this  in- 
carnation sof  common  sense  accompanied  by  uncommon  will,  as- 
sumed over  all  that  was  loo  deep  or  too  high  for  her  comprehension, 
had  sometimes  amused  me  ;  thinking  over  it  now,  it  piqued.  I  said 
to  myself,  "  After  all,  I  shall  bear  with  me  such  solace  as  intellec- 
tual occupation  can  afford.  '  I  shall  have'  leisure  to  complete  this 
labor,  and  a  record  that  I  have  lived  and  thought  may  outlast  all 
the  honors  which  worldly  ambition  can  bestow  upon  an  Ashleigh 
.Sumner ! "  And,  as  I  so  murmured,  my  hand  mechanically 
selecting  the  books  I  needed,  fell  on  the  Bible  that  Julius  Faber 
had  given  to  me. 

It  opened  at  the  Second  Book  of  Esdras,  which  our  Church 
places  among  the  Aporcrypha,  and  is  generally  considered  by 
scholars  to  have  been  written  in  the  first  or  second  century  of  the 
Christian  era*     But  in  which  the  questions  raised  by  man  in  the 


*"  Such  is  the  supposition  of  John.  Dr.  Lee,  however,  is  of  opinion  that 
the  author  was  contemporary,  and,  indeed,  identical  with  the  author  of  the 
Book  of  Enoch. 


A    STRA.N'OE    STORY.  275 

remotest  ages,  to  which  we  can  trace  back  his  desire  "  to  compre- 
hend the  way  of  the  Most  High,"  are  invested  with  a  grandeur  of 
thought  and  sublimity  of  word  to  which  I  know  of  no  parallel  in 
writers  we  call  profane. 

eye  fell  on  this    passage    in    the    lofty  argument 
the  Angel,  whose  name  was  Uriel,  and  the  Prophet,  perplexed  by 
hisown  cravings  for  knowledge  : 

"  He- (the  Angel)  answered  me,  and!  said,  I  went  into  a  forest, 
into  u  plain,  and  the  trees  look  counsel, 

"And  said.  Come,  let  us  go  and  make  war  against  the  sea  that 
it  may  depart  away  before  us,  and  that  we  may  make  us  more 
woods. 

"The  floods  of  the  sea  also  in  like  manner  took  counsel,  and 
said,  Come,  let  us  go  up  and  subdue  the  woods  of  the  plain,  that 
there  also  we  may  make  us  another  country. 

"The  thought -of  the  wood  was  in  vain,  for  the  fire  came  and 
consumed  it. 

''The  thought  of  the  floods  of  the  sea  came  likewise  to  nought, 
iie  sand  stood  up  and  stopped  them. 

"If  thou  wert  judge  now  betwixt  these  two,  whom  wouldstthou 
begin  to  justify,  or  whom  wouldst  thou  condemn  I 

"  i  answered  and  said,  Verily  it  is  a  foolish  thought  that  they 
have  both  devised  ;  for  the  ground  is  given  unto  the  wood,  and  the 
sea  also  hath  his  place  to  hear  his  floods. 

"  Then  answered  he  me  and  said,  Thou  hast  given  a  right  judg- 
ment ;  hut  why  judges*;  thou  not-  thyself  also  .' 

"  For  like  as  the  ground  is  given  unto  the  wood,  and  the  sea  to 
»ods:  even  so  they  thai,  dwell  upon  the  earth  may  understand 
nothing  but  that  which  is  upon  the  earth,  and  He  that  dwelleth 
above  the  heavens  may  only  understand  the  things  that  are  al 
the  height  of  the  heavens."' 

I  paused  at  those  words,  and,  closing  the  Sacred  Volume,  fell 
into  deep,  unquiet  thought. 


CI  I A  IT  Kl!  LXIX. 

I   i  ;  that  the  voyage  would  have  had  some  beneficial 

on   Lilian;  but    no  006   or   bad,  was  perceptible, 

except,  perhaps,  a  deeper  silence  a  -cutler  calm.  She  loved  to  sit 
on  the  deck  when  the  nights  were  fair,  and  the  stars  mirrowed  on 
the  deep.  BC6,    thus,   as    I   stood   beside  her,  bending  0V6T 

;;:il   ol    the  vessel,  am!    gazing    on    the    long  wake  of   light 
whieu  the  moon  made  amidst  the  darkness  of  an  ocaan  to  which 


•^?G  A    STKANGB    STORY. 

no  shore  could  be  seen,  I  said  to  myself,  "  Where  is  my  track 
of  light  through  the  measureless  future?  Would  that  I  could 
believe  as  I  did  when  a  child  !  Woe  is  me,  that  all  the  reason- 
ings I  take  from  my  knowledge  should  lead  me  away  from  the 
comfort  which  the  peasant  who  mourns  finds  in  faith !  Why  should 
riddles  so  dark  have  been  thrust  upon  me? — me,  no  fond  child  of 
fancy  :  me,  sober  pupil  of  schools  the  severest,  Yet  what  marvel 
— the  strangest  my  senses  have  witnessed  or  feigned  in  the  fraud 
they  have  palmed  on  me — is  greater  than  that  by  which  a  simple 
affection,  that  all  men  profess  to  have  known,  has  changed  the 
courses  of  life  pre-arranged  by  my  hopes  and  confirmed  by  my 
judgment?  How  calmly  before  1  knew  love  I  have  anatomized 
its  mechanism,  as  the  tyro  who  dissects  the  web-work  of  tissues 
and  nerves  in  the  dead  !  Lo  !  it  lives,  lives  in  me  ;  and,  in  liv- 
ing, escapes  from  my  scalpel  and  mocks  all  my  knowledge.  Can 
love  be  reduced  to  the  realm  of  the  senses  ?  No  !  what  nun  is 
more  barred  by  her  grate  from  the  realm  of  the  senses  than  my 
bride  by  her  solemn  affliction  ?  Is  love,  then,  the  union  of  kin- 
dred, harmonious  minds  ?  No.!  my  beloved  one  sits  by  my  side, 
and  I  guess  not  her  thoughts,  and  my  mind  is  to  her  a  sealed 
fountain.  Yet  I  love  her  more — oh  ineffably  more  !  for  the  doom 
which  destroys  the  two  causes  philosophy  assign,'-  to  love — in  the 
form  in  the  mind  !  How  can  I  now,  in  my  vain  physiology,  say 
what  is  love — what  is  not?  It  is  love  which  must  tell  me  that 
man  has  a  soul,  and  that  in  soul  will  be  found  the  solution  of  prob- 
lems never  to  be  solved  in  body  or  mind  alone?" 

My  self-questionings  halted  here,  as  Lilian's  hand  touched  my 
shoulder.     She  had  riseu  from  her  seat,  and  come  to  me. 

"  Are  not  the  stars  very  far  from  earth  ?"  she  said. 

"Very  far." 

"Are  they  seen  for  the  first  time  to-night?" 

"  They  were  seen,  I  presume,  as  we  see  them,  by  the  fathers  of 
all  human  races !" 

"  Yet  close  below  us  they  shine  reflected  in  the  waters;  and  yet, 
see,  wave  flows  on  wave  before  we  can  count  it !" 

"  Lilian,  by  what  sympathy  do  you  read  and  answer  my 
thought?" 

Her  reply  was  incoherent  and  meaningless.  If  a  gleam  of  in- 
telligence had  mysteriously  lighted  my  heart  to  her  view,  it  was 
gone.  But  drawing  her  nearer  towards  me,  my  eye  long  followed 
wistfully  the  path  of  light  dividing  the  darkness  on  either  hand,' 
till  it  closed  in  the  sloping  horizon. 


A    STRANDS    STORY.  277 


CHAPTER  LXX. 


The  voyage  is  over.  Al  the  seaport  at  which  we  landed  I 
found  a  letter  from  Faber.  My  ins:  rue! inns  had  reached  him  in 
time  to  effect  the  purchase  on  which  his  descriptions  had  fixed  my 
desire.  The  stock,  the  implements  of  husbandry,  the  furniture  of 
the  house  were  included  in  the  purchase.  All  was  prepared  for 
my  arrival,  and  1  hastened  from  the  miserable  village,  which  may 
some  day  rise  into  one  of  the  mightiest  capitals  of  the  world,  to  my 
lodge  in  the  wilderness-. 

It  was  the  burst  of  the  Australian  spring,  which  commences  in 
our  autumn  month  of  October.  The  air  was  loaded  with  the  p  t 
fume  of  the  acacias.  Amidst  the  glades  of  the  open  forest  land, 
or  climbing  the  Craggy  banks  of  winding  silvery  creeks,*  creepers 
and  flowers  of  dazzling  hue  contrasted  the  olive-green  of  the  sur- 
rounding foliage.  The  exhilarating  effect  of  the  climate  in  that 
season  heightens  the  charm  of  the  strange  scenery.  In  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  sky,  in  the  lightness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  sense  of 
life  is  wondrously  quickened.  With  the  very  breath  the  Adven- 
turer ,draws  in  from  the  racy  air,  he  feels  as  if  inhaling  hope. 

We  have  reached  our  home — we  are  settled  in  it ;  the  early  un 
familiar  impressions  are  worn  away.     We  have  learned  to  dispense 
with   much   that   we   at  first    missed,  and  are  reconciled  to  much 
that  at  iirst  disappointed  Or  displeased. 

The  house  is  built  but.  of  logs — the  late  proprietor  had  com- 
menced, upon  a  rising  ground,  a  mile  distant,  a  more  imposing 
edifice  of  stone  !  but  it  is  not  half  finished. 

This  log-house  is  commodious,  and  much  has  been  done,  within 
and  without,  to  conceal  or  adorn  its  primitive  rudeness.  It  is  of 
irregular,  picturesque  form,  with  verandas  round  three  sides  of  it. 
to  which  the  grape-vine  has  been  trained,  with  glossy  leaves  that 
clamber  up  to  the  gable  roof.  There  is  a  large  garden  in  front,  in 
which  many  English  fruit-trees  have  been  set,  and  grow  fast  among 
the  plants  of  the  tropics,  and  the  orange-trees  of  Southern  Europe. 
Beyond,  stretch  undulous  pastures,  studded  with  flocks  and  herds; 
to  the  left,  soar  up.  in  long  range,  the  many-colored  hills;  to  the 
right  meanders  a  creel;,  belted  by  feathery  trees;  and  on  its  op- 
posite batik  a  forest  opens,  through  frequent  breaks,  into  park-like 
g.ades  and  alleys.  The  territory  of  which  I  so  suddenly  find  my- 
self the  lord  is  vast,  even  for  a  colonial  capitalist. 

'   Creek  i*  tin  pan  by  Australian  colonists  to  precarioui  wtfter- 

eemraea  and|trib»ferj  itreams. 


278  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

It  had  been  originally  purchased  as  "  a  special  survey,"  com-, 
prising  twenty  thousand  acres,  with  the  privilege  of  pasture  over 
forty  thousand  more.  In  very  little  of  this  land,  though  it  in- 
cludes some  of  the  most  fertile  districts  in  the  known  world,  has 
cultivation  been  even  commenced.  At  the  time  I  entered  into 
possession,  even  sheep  were  barely  profitable ;  labor  was  scarce 
and  costly.  Regarded  as  a  speculation,  I  could  not  wonder  that 
my  predecessor  fled  in  fear  from  his  domain.  Had  I  invested  the 
bulk  of  my  capital  in  this  lordly  purchase  I  should  have  deemed 
myseif  a  ruined  man  ;  but  a  villa  near  London,  with  a  hundred 
acres,  would  have  cost  me  as  much  to  buy,  and  thrice  as  much  to 
keep  up.  I  could  afford  the  invesment  I  had  made.  I  found  a 
Scotch  bailiff  already  on  the  estate,  and  I  was  contented  to  es- 
cape from  rural  occupations,  to  which  I  brought  no  experience, 
by  making  it  worth  his  while  to  serve  me  with  zeal.  Two  domes- 
tics of  my  own,  and  two  who  had  been  for  many  years  with  Mrs. 
Ashleigh,  had  accompanied  us;  they  remained  faithful,  and  seem- 
ed contented.  So  the  clock-work  of  our  mere  household  arrange- 
ments vein  on  much  the  same  as  in  our  native  homes.  Lilian 
was  not  subjected  to  the  ordinary  privations  and  discomforts  that 
await  the  wife  even  of  the  wealthy  emigran..  Alas!  would  she 
have  heeded  them  if  she  bad  been  ? 

The  change  of  scene  wrought  a  decided  change  for  the  better 
in  her  health  and  spirits,  but  not  such  as  implied  a  dawn  of  revi- 
ving reason.  But  her  countenance  was  now  more  rarely  overcast. 
Its  usual  aspect  was  glad  with  a  soft  mysterious  smile.  She 
would  murmur  snatches  of  songs,  that  were  partly  borrowed  from 
English  Poets,  partly  gliding  away  into  what  seemed  spontaneous 
additions  of  her  own — wanting  intelligible  meaning,  but  never 
melody  nor  rhyme.  Strange,  that  memory  and  imitation — the  two 
earliest  parents  of  all  inventive  knowledge — should  still  be  so 
active,  and  judgment — the  after  faculty,  that  combines  the  rest 
into  purpose  and  method — be  annulled. 

Julius  Faber  I  see  continually,  though  his  residence  is  a  few 
miles  distant,  He  is  sanguine  as  to  Lilian's  ultimate  recovery  ; 
and,  to  my  amazement  and  to  my  envy,  he  has  contrived,  by 
some  art  which  I  cannot  attain,  to  establish  between  her  and  him- 
self intelligible  communion.  She  comprehends  his  questions, 
when  mine,  though  the  simplest,  seem  to  her  in  unknown  language  : 
and  he  construes  into  sense  her  words,  that  to  me  are  meaningless 
riddles. 

-  I  was  right,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  leaving  her  seated  in  the 
garden  beside  her  quiet,  patient  mother,  and  joining  me  where  i 
lay — listless  yet  fretful — under  the  shadeless  gum-trees,  gazing 
not  on  the  flocks  and  fields  that  I  could  call  my  own,  but  on  the 
far  mountain  range,  from  which  the  arch  of  the  horizon  seemed  to 
spring; — "I  was  right,"  said  the  great  physician  ;  "this  is  reason 
suspended,  not  reason  lost.     Your  wife  will  recover  ;  but " 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  279 

"But  what?" 

"  Give  me  your  arm  as  I  walk  homeward,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
conclusion  to  which  1  have  come." 

I  rose,  the  old  man  leaned  on  me,  and  we  went  down  the  valley, 
along  the  craggy  ridges  of  the  winding  creek.  The  woodland  on 
the  opposite  hank  was  vocal  with  the  chirp  and  croak,  and  chatter 
of  Australian  hirds — all  mirthful,  all  songless,  save  that  sweetest 
of  warblers,  which  some  early  irreverent  emigrant  degraded  to  the 
name  of  magpie,  but  whose  note  is  sweeter  than  the  Nightingale's, 
and  trills  through  the  lucent  air  with  a  distinct  ecstatic  melody  of 
joy  that  dominates  all  the  discords  ; — so  ravishing  the  sense  that, 
while  it  sings,  the  ear  scarcely  heeds  the  scream  of  the  parrots. 


CHAPTER  LXXJ 

"  You  may  remember,"  said  Julius  Faber,  "  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy's  eloquent  description  of  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the 
inhalation  of  nitrous  oxide.  He  states  that  he  began  to  lose  the 
perception  of  external  things  ;  trains  of  vivid  visible  images  ra- 
pidly passed  through  his  mind,  and  were  connected  with  words  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  produce  perceptions  perfectly  novel.  '  1  ex- 
isted,' he  says,  '  in  a  world  of  newly-connected  and  newly-modified 
ideas.'  When  he  recovered,  he  exclaimed  :  '  Nothing  exists  but 
thoughts;  the  universe  is  composed  of  impressions,  ideas,  pleas- 
ures, and  pains  !' 

"  Now  observe,  that  thus,  a  cultivator  of  positive  science,  en- 
dowed with  one  of  the  healthiest  of  human  brains,  is,  by  the  in- 
halation of  a  gas,  abstracted  from  all  external  life — enters  into  a 
new  world,  which  consists  of  images  he  himself  creates,  and  ani- 
mates so  vividly — that,  on  waking,  he  resolves  the  universe  itself 
into  thoughts." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "  but  what  inference  do  you  draw  from  that 
voluntary  experiment,  applicable  to  the  malady  of  which  you  bid 
me  hope  the  cure  ?" 

"  Simply  this  :  that  the  effect  produced  on  a  healthful  brain  by  the 
nitrous  oxide  may  be  produced  also  by  moral  causes  operating  on 
t  lie  blood,  or  on  the  nerves.  There  is  a  degree  of  mental  excite- 
menl  in  which  ideas  are  more  vivid  than  sensations,  and  then  the 
world  of  external  things  gives  way  to  the  world  within  the  brain* 
But  this,  though  a  suspension  of  that  reason  which  comprehends 


the  theory  elaborated  from  this  principle,  Dr.  Ilibbcrt's  interest- 
ing (i  ml  valuable  work  on  the  I'hilosophy  of  Aparitions. 


250  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

accuracy  of  judgment,  is  no  more  a  permanent  aberration  of  rea- 
son than  was  Sir  Humphry  Davy's  visionary  pcstacies  under  the 
influence  of  the  gas.  The  difference  between  the  two  states  of 
suspension  is  that  of  time,  and  it  is  but  an  affair  of  time  with  our 
beloved  patient.  Yet  prepare  yourself/  I  fear  that  the  mind  will 
not  recover  without  some  critical  malady  of  the  body." 

"  Critical  !  but  not  dangerous  1 — say  not-  dangerous.  I  can  en- 
dure the  pause  of  her  reason  ;  I  could  not  endure  the  void  in  the 
universe  if  her  life  were  to  fade  from  the  earth." 

"  Poor  friend  !  would  you  not  yOurself  rather  lose  life  than 
reason  ?" 

"  I — yes  !  But  we  men  are  taught  to  set  cheap  value  on  our 
own  lives  ;  we  do  not  estimate  at  the  same  rate  the  lives  of  those 
we  love.     Did  we  do  so,  Humanity  would  lose  its  virtues." 

"  What  then  !  Love  teaches  that  there  is  something  of  nobler 
value  than  mere  mind  ;  yet  surely  it  cannot  be  the  mere  body. 
What  is  it,  if  not  that  continuance  of  being  which  your  philosophy 
declines  to  acknowledge — namely,  soul  1  If  you  fear  so  painfully 
that  your  Lilian  should  die,  is  it  not  that  vou  fear  to  lose  her  for- 
eTver  ?" 

"  Oh,  cease,  cease,"  I  cried  impatiently.  "  1  cannot  now  argue 
on  metaphysics.  What  is  it  that  you  anticipate  of  harm  to  her 
life  ?  Her  health  has  been  stronger  ever  since  her  affliction.  She 
never  seems  to  know  ailment  now.  Do  you  not  perceive  that  her 
cheek  has  a  more  hardy  bloom,  her  frame  a  more  rounded  sym- 
metry, than  when  you  saw  her  in  England  ?" 

"  Unquestionably.  Her  physical  forces  have  been  silently  re- 
cruiting themselves  in  the  dreams  which  half  lull,  half  amuse  her 
imagination.  Imagination,  that  faculty,' the  most  glorious  which 
is  bestowed  on  the  human  mind,  because  it  is  the  faculty  which  en- 
ables thought  to  create,  is  of  all  others,  the  most  exhausting  to  life 
when  unduly  stimulated,  and  consciously  reasoning  on  its  own 
creations.  I  think  it  probable  that,  had  this  sorrow  not  befallen 
you,  you  would  have  known  a  sorrow  still  graver — you  would  have 
long  survived  your  Lilian.  As  it  is  now,  when  she  recovers,  her 
whole  organization,  physical  and  mental,  will  have  undergone  a 
beneficent  change.  But  I  repeat  my  prediction  ;  some  severe 
malady  of  the  body  will  precede  the  restoration  of  the  mind  ;  and 
it  is  my  hope  that  the  present  suspense  or  aberration  of  the  more 
wearing  powers  of  the  mind  fit  the  body  to  endure  and  surmount 
the  physical  crisis.  I  remember  a  case,  within  my  own  experience, 
in  many  respects  similar  to  this,  but  in  other  respects  it  was  less 
hopeful.  I  was  consulted  by  a  young  student  of  the  frailest  physi- 
cal conformation,  of  great  mental  energies,  and  consumed  by  an 
Intense  ambition.  He  was  reading  for  university  honors.  He 
would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  entreated  him  to  rest  his  mind.  1 
thought  that  he  was  certain  to  obtain  the  distinction  for  which  he 
toiled,  and  equally  certain  to  die  a  few  months  after  obtaining  it. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  28 1 

He  falsified  bolli  by  deductions.  He  so  overworked  himself  that, 
on  the  day  of  examination,  his  nerves  were  agitated,  his  memory 
failed  him  ;  he  passed,  not  without,  a  certain  credit,  but  fell  far 
short  of  the  rank  among  his  feilow-cpmpetJtors '  to  which  he  as- 
pired. Here,  then,  the  irritated  mind  acted  on  llie  disappointed 
heart,  and  raised  a  new  train  of  emotions,  lie  was  first,  visited  by 
spectral  illusions:  then  he  sank  into  a  state  in  which  the  external 
world  seemed  quite  blotted  out!  lie  heeded  nothing  that  was  said 
to  him  ;  seemed  to  see  nothing  that  was  placed  before  his  eyes  ; 
in  a  word,  sensations  became  dormant,  ideas  pre  d  usurped 

'  their  place,  and  those  ideas  gave  him   pleasure.  >ved  that 

his  genius  was  recognised*  and  lived  among  its  supposed  creations, 
enjoying  an  imaginary  fame.  So  it  went  on  for  two  years.  During 
i  hat  period  his  frail  form  became  rdbust  and  vigorous^  At  die  end 
of  that  time  he  was  seized  with  a  fever,  which  would  have  swept 
him  in  three  days  to  the  grave  had  it  occurred  when  1  was  iirsi 
called  in  to  attend  him.  He  conquered  the  fever,  and,  in  recover- 
ing, acquired  the  full  possession  of  the  intellectual  faculties  so  long 

inded.     When  1  last  saw  him,  many  yeaw  afterward,  he 
in  perfect  health,  and  the  object  of  his  young  ambition  was  realized; 
the  body  had  supported    the  mind — he   had  achieved  distinction. 
Now  what  had  so,  for  a  time,  laid  this  strong  intellect  into  vision- 
ary slc-p  ?     The  inns!   agonizing  of  human  emotions  in  a  noble 
spirit — shame  !     What  has  so  stricken  down  your  Liliau  I 
have  told  me,  the  story  ;  shame  ! — the  shame  of  a  nature  preemi- 
nently pure.     But  observe,  that   in   his  case  as  in  hers,  the  shock 
indicted  does  not  produce  a  succession  of  painful  illusions  ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  in  both,  the  illusions  are  generally  pleasing, 
the  illusions  been   painful,  the   body  would    have    suffered — the 
patient  died.     Why  did  a  painful  shock  produce  pleasing  illusions/ 
Because,  no  matter  how  a  shock  on  the  nerves  may  originate,  if  it 
affects  the  reason,  it  does  but  make  more  vivid  than  impressions 
from  actual  external  objects  the  ideas  previously  most  cherished. 
Such  ideas  in  the  ypung  studdnl  were  ideas  of  earthly  fame;  such 
ideas  in  the  young  maiden  are  ideas  of  angel  comforters  and  heav- 
enly Edens.     Yon  miss  her  mind  on  the  earth,  and,  while  we  s] 
it  is  in  paradise." 

"  Much  that  you  say,  my  friend,  is  authorized  b'j  the  speculations 
of  great  writers,  with  whom  1  am  not  unfamiliar;  but  in  not 
those  writers,  nor  in  your  encouraging-  words,  do  1   find  a  solution 
for  much  that  has  no  precedents  in  my  i  sperience — much,  ind< 
that  has  analogies  which  I  have  ever  before  despised  as  old  wives' 
fables.     I  have  bared  to  your  searching  eye  the  weird  mvsieri 
my  life.     How  do  you  account  for  facts  which   you  cannot    resolve 
into  illusions  ?  for  the  influence  which  that  strangi 
grave,  exercised  oxer  Lilian's  mind  or  faucy,  SO  1  hat,  for  a  lim. 
love  for  me  was  as  dormant  as  is  her  reason  now  :  so  that  be  could 
draw  her — bur  wboss  nature  you  admit    to    be  singularly  pure  and 


282  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

modest — from  her  mother's  home  ?  The  magic  wand !  the  trance 
into  which  that  wand  threw  Margrave  himself;  the  apparition 
which  it  conjured  up  in  my  own  quiet  chamber,  when  my  mind 
was'without  a  care  and  my  health  without  a  flaw.  How  account 
for  all  this — as  you  endeavored  and  perhaps  successfully,  to  ac- 
count for  all  rny  impressions  of  the  Visions  in  the  Museum,  of  the 
luminous  haunting  Shadow  in  its  earlier  apparitions,  when  my  fancy 
was  heated,  my  heart  tormented,  and,  it  might  be,  even  the  physical 
forces  of  this  strong  frame  disordered?" 

"Allen,"  said  the  old  pathologist,  "  here  we  approach  phenomena 
which  lew  physicians  have  dared  to  examine.  Honor  to  those  who, ' 
like  our  bold  contemporary,  Elliotson,  have  braved  scoff  and  sacri- 
ficed dross  in  seeking  to  extract  what  is  practical  in  uses,  what  can 
be  tested  by  experiment  from  those  exceptional  phenomena  on 
which  magic  sought  to  found  a  philosophy,  and  to  which  philoso- 
phy tracks  the  origin  of  magic." 

"  What !     Do  1  understand  you  ?     Is  it  you,  Julius  Faber,  who  . 
attach   faith  to  the  wonders  ascribed  to   animal  magnetism  and 
electro-biology,  or  subscribe  to  the  doctrines  which  their  practition- 
ers tea cji  I" 

"  I  have  not  examined  into  those  doctrines,  nor  seen  with  my 
own  eyes  the  wonders  recorded,  upon  evidence  too  respectable, 
nevertheless,  to  permit  me  peremptorily  to  deny  what  I  have  not 
witnessed.*     But  wherever  I  look  through  the  History  of  Man- 

'  What  Faber  here  say*  is  expressed  with  more  authority  by  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  metaphysicians  of  our  time  (.Sir  W7 Hamilton): 

mnaoflbulistrj  is  a  phenomenon  still  iftore  astonishing  (than  dreaming). 
In  ihis  singular  state  a  person  perform  rational  actions, 

and  those  frequently  of  the  must  difficult  and  delicate  nature;  and  what  is  still 

marvelous,  with  a  talent  to  which  he  could  make  no  pretensions  when 
awake.  (Cr.  Ancillon,  Essais  Phftoft.  ii.  J(il.)  His  memory  and  reminiscence 
supply  him  with  recollections  of  words  and  things  which,  perhaps,  never 
were  at  !;  in  the  ordinary  state— he  speaks  more  fluently  a  more 

.     And  if  we  are  to  credit  what  the  evidence  on  which  it 
hardly  allows  us  to  disbelieve,  he   has  not  only  perception  of  things  through 

channels  than  the  common  organs   of  sense,  but  the  sphere  of  his  cogn;- 
tio'n  is  amplified  to  an  extent  far  beyond  the  limits  to  which  sensible  percept 
confined.     This  subject  is  one  of  the  most  perplexing  in  the  whole  com- 
pass of  philosophy ;   for,  on  the  one  hand,  the  phenomena  are  so  remarkable 

hey  cannot  be  believed,  on  the  other,  they  are  of  so  unambiguous 

and  palpable  a  character,  and  the  witnesses  to  their  reality  are  so  num 
so  intelligent,  and  so  high   above  every  suspicion  of  deceit,  that  it  is  equally 
to  deny  credit  to  what  is  .attested  by  such  ample  and  unexception- 

ividenee."     .sir  W.  Hamilton's  Lectures  on  Metaphysics  and  Logic,  vol. 

?74. 

18  perplexity,  in  which  the  distinguished  philosopher  leaves  the  judgment 

80  equally  balanced  that  it  finds  it  impossible  to  believe,  and  yet  impossible  to 

disbelieve,  forms  the  right  state  of  mind  in  which  a  candid  thinker  should  come 

examination  of  those  more  extraordinary  phenomena  which  he  has  not 

If  yet  witnessed,  but  the  fair  inquiry  into  which  may  be  tendered  to  him 
by  persons  above  the  imputation  of  quackery  and  fraud.  Midler,  who  is  not 
the    least   determined,   as  he  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  distinguished  dis- 

ers  of  mesmeric,  phenomeuu.  doea  not  appear  to  have  witnessed,  or  at 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  283 

kind  in  all  ages  and  all  races,  I  find  a  concurrence  in  certain  be- 
liefs which  seems  to  countenance  the  theory  that  there  is  in  some 
peculiar  and  rare  temperaments  a  power  over  forma  of  animated 
organization,  with  which  they  establish  some  unaccountable  affini- 
ty :  and  even,  though  much  more  rarely,  a  power  over  inanimate 
matter.  Yon  are  familiar  With  the  theory  of  Descartes,  '  thai  those 
particles  of  the  blood  which  penetrate  to  the  brain  do  not  only 
serve  to  nourish  and  sustain  its  substance,  but  te  produce  there  a 
oertain  very  subtle  Aura,  or  rather  a  flame  very  vivid  and  purr 
that  obtains  the  name  of  the  Animal  Spirits;'*  ami  at  the  close 
of  this  great  fragment  upon  Man,  he  asserts  that  '  this  flame  is  of  no  . 
other  nature  than  all  the  tires  which  are  in  inanimate  both 
This  notion  does  bu<  forestall  the  more-recent  doctrine  thai  electri- 
city is  more  or  less  in  all,  or  nearly  all,  known  matter.  Now, 
whether,  in  the  electric  fluid  o  other  fluid  akin  to  it/of  which 

we  know  si  ill  less,  thus  equally  pervading  all  mailer,  there  may  be 
a,  certain  magnetic  property  more  active,  more  operative  upon  sym- 
pathy in  some  human  constitutions  than  in  others,  and  which  can 
nt  for  the  mysterious  power  I  have  spoken  of,  is  a  query  I 
mighl  suggest,  but  not  an  opinion  1  would  hazard.  Foran  opinion 
1  must  have  that  basis  of  experience  or  authority  which  1  do  no! 
need  '.  ten  I  submit  a  query  to  the  experience  and  authority  of 
others.  Still  the  supposition  conveyed  in  the  query  is  so  far  worthy 
of  notice  that  tiie  ecstatic  temperament  (in  which  phras 
prebend  alfconstitutional  mystics)  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  electric 
atmospheric  influences.  This  is  a  fact  which  most  medical  obser- 
vers will  have  remarked,  in  the  range  of  their  practice.  Accord- 
ingly 1  was  prepared  to  find  Mr.  Hare  Townshend,  in  his  interest- 
ing \vork,t  state  thai  he  himself  was  of  cthe  temperament^' 
sparks  flying  from  his  hair  when  combed  in  the  dark,  etc.  Thai 
accomplished  writer,  whose  veracity  no  one  would  impugn,  affirms 
that  «  between  this  electrical  endowment  and  whatever  mesmeric 
properties  he  might  possess;  there  is  a  remarkable  relationship  ami 

least  to  have  carefully  examined  them,  or  be  would,  perhaps  u  kbaj 

Mil'  more  extraordinary  of  those  phenomena  confirm,  rather' than  con- 
tradict, his  own  l  ■   rics.  and  may  be  i  y  tin'  syinpathi 

mother — "tte  haw-  of  reflection  through  the  medium  of  the 
brain."'    (Physiology  of  Senses,  p.  1311.)     And  again  by  the  maxim    ' 
the  mental  principle,  or  cause  of  the  menial  phenomena,  cannot  be  coi 
to  the  brain,  bull  that  n  exists  in  a  tte  iu  every  pari  o  iism." 

(lb.  p.  1355.)     The  "nerve  power,"  contended  for  by 'Mr,  Bain,  also,  may 
suggest  a  rational  solution  of  much  that  has  Beemed  incredible  to  those  physi- 
ologiststyho  have  nut  condescended  to  sift  the  genuine  phenomena  of  mi 
ism  from  the  iutptature  to  which,  in  all  ages,  the  phenomena  exhibited  by 
what  may  be  nailed  ii-  rameut,  have  been  applied. 


*  Di  ('Homme,  vol  i's  Edition. 

t  Ibid.  p. 

'    Facts  on  Mesmerism. 


284  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

parallelism.  Whatever  state  of  the  atmosphere  tends  to  accumu- 
late and  insulate  electricity  in  the  body,  promotes  equally  (says 
Mr.  Townshend)  the  power  and  facility  with  which  I  influence 
olhe.  s  uk  s  nerically.  What  Mr.  Townshend  thus  observes  in  him- 
self, American,  physicians  and  professors  of  chemistry  depose  to 
have  observed  in  those  modern  magicians,  the  mediums  of  (so 
called)  '  spirit  manifestation.'  They  state  that  all  such  mediums 
are  of  the  electric  temperament,  thus  every  where  found  allied  with 
the  ecstatic,  and  their  power  varies  in  proportion  as  the  state  of  the 
atmosphere  serves  to  depress  or  augment  the  electricity  stored  -in 
themselves.  Here,  then,  in  the  midst  of  vagrant  phenomena, 
either  too  hastily  dismissed  as  altogether  the  tricks  of  fraudful  im- 
posture, or  too  credulously  accepted  as  supernatural  portents — here, 
at  least,  in  one  generalized  fact,  we  may,  perhaps,  find  a  starting- 
point,  from  which  inductive  experiment  may  arrive  soon,  or  late,  at 
a  rational  theory.  But,  however  the  power  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing (a  power  accorded  to  special  physical  temperament)  may  or 
may  not  be  accounted  for  by  some  patient  student  of  nature,  I  am 
persuaded  that  it  is  in  that  power  we  are  to  seek  for  whatever  is 
not  wholly  imposture  in  the  attributes  assigned  to  magic  or  witch- 
craft. It  is  well  said  by  a  writer  who  has  gone  into  the  depth  of 
these  subjects,  with  the  research  of  a  scholar  and  the  science  of  a 
pathologist,  '  that  if  magic  had  exclusively  reposed  on  credulity 
and  falsehood,  its  reign  would  never  have  endured  so  long.  But 
Thai  its  art  took  its  origin  in  singular  phenomena,  proper  to  certain 
affections  of  the  nerves,  or  manifested  in  the  conditions  of  sleep. 
These  phenomena,  the  principle  of  which  was  at  first  unknown, 
served  to  root  faith  in  magic,  and  often  abused  even  enlightened 
minds.  The  enchanters  and  magicians  arrived,  by  divers  practices, 
at  the  faculty  of  provoking  in  other  brains  a  determined  order  of 
dreams,  of  engendering  hallucinations  of  all  kinds,  of  inducing  fits 
of  hypnotism,  trance,  mania,  during  which  the  persons  so  affected 
imagined  that  they  saw,  heard,  touched  supernatural  beings,  con- 
d  with  them,  proved  their  influences,  assisted  at  prodigies  of 
which  magic  proclaimed  itself  to  possess  the  secret.  The  public, 
the  enchanters,  and  the  enchanted,  were  equally  dupes.'  *  Accept- 
ing this  explanation,  unintelligible  to  no  physician  of  a  practice  so 
lengthened  as  mine  has  been,  I  draw  from  it  the  corollary  that  as 
these  phenomenon  are  exhibited  only  by  certain  special  affections, 
to  which  only  certain  special  constitutions  are  susceptible,  so  not 
in  any  superior  faculties  of  intellect,  or  of  spiritual  endowment, 
but  in  peculiar  physical  temperaments,  often  strangely  disordered, 
the  power  of  the  sorcerer  in  affecting  the  imagination  of  others, 
is  to  be  sought.  In  the  native  tribes  of  Australasia  the  elders 
are  instructed  in  the  arts  of  this  so-called  sorcery,  but  only  in  a 

*  La  Magie  et  FAstrologie  daug  l'Antiquite  et  an  Moyen-Age.    Par  L.  F. 
Alfred  Maury,  Membre  Je  lln*titut.     P. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  286 

very  few  consti'utions  do 'S  in  tructicn  avail  to  'produce  effects  in 
w,  ic'n  the  savajges  recognise  the  \  owcis  of  a  sorcerrr;  it  issowi  h 
the  Obi  of  the  negioes.  The  fascination  of  Obi  is  an  unquestion- 
able fact,  but  tli  -  Obi  maa  "anno:   be  trained  by  formal    e  > 

born  a  fascinator,  as  a  pod  is  born  a  j  oet.  It  is  so  with  the 
La  landers,  of  whom  Tornseus  reports  that  of  those  instructed  in 
the  magical  art  '  only  a  few  are  ea]  able  of  it.'  '  Some,'  lie  says, 
'sue  naturally  magicians.'  And  this  fact  is  emphatically  insisted 
upon  by  the  mystics  of  our  own  middle  ages,  who  state  t  at  a  man 
miis!  be  born  a  magician,  in  other  words,  thai  the  gift  is  constitu- 
tional, though  dev  loped  by  practice  and  art.  Now,  that  this  gift 
and  its  practices  a  ould  principally  obtain  in  imperfect  states  of 
civilization,  and  fade  into  insignificanc-!  in  the  busy  social  en- 
lightenment  v\'  cities,  may   he  accounted  for  by   reference  to  the 

m  influences  oi  imagination.  In  the  cruder  slates  of  social 
life  not  only  is  imagination  more  frequently  predominant  ov  r  all 
Other  faculties  hut  it  has  not  the  healthful  vents  which  the  intel- 
lectual competition  of  cities  and  civilization  affords.  The  man 
who  in  a  savage  tribe,  or  in'lhe  dark  feudal  ages,  would  he  a 
magician,  is  in  our  century  a  poet,  an  orator,  a  daring  speculator, 
an  Inventive  philosopher.  In  other  words,  his  imagination]  is 
drawn  to  pursuits  congenial  to  those  amongst  whom  it  works.  It. 
is  the  tendency  of  all  intellect  to  follow  the  direction  of  the  public 
opinion  amidst  which  it  is  train  d.  Where  a  magician  is  held  in 
reverence  or  awe,  there  will  be  more  practitioners  of  magic  than 
where  a  magician  is  despised  as  an  impostor  or  shut  up  as  lunatic. 
In  Scandf..avia,  before  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  all  tradi- 
tion records  the  wonderful  powers  of  the  Yala,  or  witch,  who  was 
then  held  in  reverence  and  honor.  Christisnfty  was  introduced, 
and  the  early  Church  denounced  the  Vala  as  the  instrument  of 

,i,  and  from  that  moment  down  dropped  thc^naestic  pro- 
phetess  into  a  miserable  and  execrated  old  hag  !  " 

"The  ideas  you  broach,"  said   I,  musingly,  "  have  at  moments 
crossed  me,  though  I  have  shrunk  from  reducing  them  to  a  tin 
which   is  but  our  of  pure  hypothesis.     Bui  this  magic,  after  all, 
then,  yon  would   place   in   the  imagination  of  the  operator,  acting 
on  the  imagination  of   those  whom  ii  affects.     Here,  at   lea 
can  1'oliow  you.  to  a  certain  extent,  for  here  we  get  back  into  tbi' 

imate  realm  of  physiology." 
"  And  possibly."  said  Falier,  "  we  may  find  bints  to  guide  us 
to  useful  examination,  if  not  to  complete  solution,  of  problems 
that,  once  demonstrated,  may  lead  to  discoveries  of  infinite  vulue — 
hints,  I  say,  in  two  writers  of  widely  opposite  genius — Van  llel- 
mont  and  Bacon.  Van  Helmont,  of  all  the  mediaeval  mystics,  is, 
in  spile  of  his  many  extravagant  whims,  the  one  whose  intellect  is 
the  most  suggestive  to  the  disciplined  reasoners  of  our  day\  He 
supposed  thai  the  faculty  which  he  calls  Phanlasy,  and  which  we 
familiarly  aall  lwaghaatiou,  k  LnvwsUsd  with  the  power  of  creating 


286  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

for  itself  ideas  independent  of  the  senses,  each  idea  clothed  in  a 
form   fabricated   by  the  imagination,  and  becoming  an  operative 

fcy.  This  notion  is  so  far  favored  by  modern  physiologists, 
that  Lincke  reports  a  case  where  the  eye  itself  was  extirpated  ; 
yet  the  extirpation  was  followed  by  the  appearance  of  luminous 
figures  before  the  orbit.  And  again,  a  woman,  stone  blind,  com- 
plained '  df  luminous  images,  with  pale  colors  before  her  eyes.' — 
Abercronrbie  mentions  the  case  'of  a  lady  quite  blind,  her  eyes 
being  also  disorganized  and  sunk,  who  never  walked  out  without 
seeing  a  little  old  woman  in  a  red  cloak  who  seemed  to  walk  be- 
fore her.'*  Your  favorite  authority,  the  illustrious  Midler,  who 
was  himself  in  the  habit  of  '  seeing  different  images  in  the  field 
of  vision  when  he  lay  quietly  down  to  sleep,'  asserts  that  these 

jes  are  not  merely  presented  to  the  fancy,  but  that  even  'the 
images  u'i  dreams  are  really  seen,'  and  that  'any  one  mav  satisfy 
himself  of  this  by  accustoming  himself  regularly  to  open  his  eyes 
when  waking  after  a  dream,  the  images  seen  in  the  dream  are  then 
sometimes  visible,  and  can  be  observed  to  disappear  gradually.' 
He  confirms  this  statement,  not  only  by  the  result  of  his  own  ex- 
perience, but  by  the  observations  made  by  Spinoza,  and  the  yet 

er  authority  of  Aristotle,  who  accounts  for  spectral  appear- 
ance as  the  internal  action  nfthesenseqf'vision.\  And  this  opin- 
favqred  by  Sir  David  Brewster,  whose  experience  leads  him 
to  suggest  'that  the  objects  of  mental  contemplation  may  be  seen 
as  distinctly  as  external  objects,  and  will  occupy  the  same  local 
position  in  the  axis  of  vision  as  if  they  had  been  formed  by  the 
agency  of  light.'  Be  this  as  if  may,  one  fact  remains,  that  ima- 
ges can  be  seen  even  by  the  blind  as  distinctly  and  as  vividly  as  you 
and  I  now  see  the  stream  below  our  feet  and  the  opossums  at  play 
upon  yonder  boughs.  Let  us  come  next  to  some  remarkable  sug- 
gestions of  fcord  Bacon.  In  his  Natural  History,  treating  of  the 
Idrce  of  the  imagination,  and  the  help  it  receives  '  by  one  man 
working  by  another,'  he  cites  an  instance  he  had  witnessed  of  a 
kind  of  juggler,  who  could  tell  a  person  what  card  he  thought  of. 
He  mentioned  this  'to  a  pretended  learned  man.  curious  in  such 
things.'  and  this  sage  said  to  him,  '  It  is  not  the  knowledge  of  the 
man's  thought,  for  that  is  proper  to  God,  but  the"  enforcing  of  a 
thought  upon  him,  and  binding  bis  imagination  by  a  stronger,  so 
that  he  could  think  of  no  other  card.'  You  see  this  sage  antici- 
pated our  modern  electro-biologists  !  And  the  learned  man  then 
shrewdly  asked  Lord  Bacon,  'Did  the  juggler  tell  the  card 
to  the  man   himself  who  had  thought,  of  it,  or  bid  another  tell 

*•  She  had  no  illusions  when  within  doors. — Abercrombie  on  the  Intellectual 
Powers,  p.  '277.     (loth  edition. ) 

t  Muller,  Physiology  of  the  Senses,  Barley's  translation,  pp.  1C68-1395,  and 

elsewhere.     Mr.  Bam'  in  his  thoughtful  and  suggestive  woik  on  the  Senses 

and  Intellect,  makes  very  powerful  use  of  these  statements  in  support  of  his 

ition,  which  Faber  advances  in  other  words,  namely,  "  the  return  of 

h   nei  veu8  currents  exaotly  oa  their  old  track  in  revived  sensati&n." 


A    STRAXGK    STORY.  287 

it  1'  '  He  bade  another  tell  it,'  answered  Lord  Bacon.  '  I  thought, 
so,'  returned  his  learned  acquaintance,  'for  the  juggler  himself 
could  not  have  put  on  so  strong  an  imagination  j  but  by  telling 
the  card  to  the  other,  who  believed  the  juggler  was  some  strange 
man  who  could  do  strange  things — that  other  man  caught  a  strong 
imagination.'*  The  whole  story  is  worth  reading,  because  Lord 
Bacon  evidently  thinks  it  conveys  a  guess  worth  examining;  And 
Lord  Bacon,  were  he  now  living,  would  be  the  man  to  solve  the 
mysteries  that  branch  out  of  mesmerism  or  (so  called)  spiritual 
manifestation,  for  he  would  not  pretend  to  despise  their  phenom- 
ena for  fear  of  hurting  his  reputation  (ov  good  sense.     Bacon  then 

on  to  state  that,  there  are  three  ways  to  fortify  the  imagina- 
tion. '  First,  authority  derived  from  belief  in  an  art  and  in  the 
man  who  exercises  it  ;  secondly,  means  to  quicken  and  corrobo- 
rate the  imagination  ;  thirdly,  means  to  repeat  and  refresh  it,' — 
For  the  second  and  the  third  he  refers  to  the  practice  of  ma 
and  proceeds  afterwards  to  state  on  what,  things  imagination 
uiosi  force  ;  '  upon  things  thai  has  the  slightest  and  easiest,  mo- 
tions,  and,  therefore,  above  all.  upon  the  spirils  of  men,  and,  in 

.  on  such  affection?  as  move  hglnest — in  love,  in  fear,  in  irres- 
olution. And,'  adds  Bacon,  earnestly,  in  a  very  different  spirit 
from  that  which  dictates  to  the  sages  of  our   time,  the  philosophy 

Veting  without  trial  that  which  belongs  to  the  Marvelous, 
'and  whatsoever  is  of  this  kind  should  be,  thoroughly  inquired 
into'  And  this  greal  founder  or  renovator  of  the  sober  inductive, 
system  of  investigation  even  so  far  leaves  it  a  matter  of  specula- 
tive inquiry  whether  imagination  may  not  be  so  powerfirl  that  i; 
can  actually  operate  upon  a  plant,  that-  he  says,  'This  likewise 
should  be  made  upon  plants,  and  that  diligently,  as  if  you  should 
tell  a  man  that' such  a  tree  would  die  this  year,  and  icUl  him,  at 
these  and  these  times,  to  go  unto  it,  and  see  how  it  thriveth.'  1 
presume  thai  no  philosopher  has  followed  such  recommendations  ; 
had  some  great  philosopher  done  so,  possibly  we  should,  by  this 
time  know  all  the  secrets  of  what  is  popularly  called  witchcraft." 

And  as  Faber  here  paused  there  came  a  strange  laugh  from  the 
fantastic  she  oak-tree  overhanging  the  stream — a  wild,  impish 
laugh. 

■■  i:ooh  !  it  is  but  the  great,  kingfisher,  the.  laughing  bird  of  the 
Australian  bush,"  said  Julius  Faber,  amused  at  my  start  of  su- 
nn. 

irhapa  it  is  for  the  reason  suggested  in  the  text,  namely,  that  the  magi- 
requires  the  interposition  of  a  third  imagination  between  his  own  and 
consulting  believer,  that  any  learned  adept  in  (so  called  J  magic  will 
inv:u  .  ■  in  exhibit  without  the  presence  of  a  third  person.    Henoe 

the  author  o  tute  Magie,  printed  at  Paris.  1852 

a  i>  ok  I.  is  remarkable  for  ii*  learning  than  for  the  earnest,  belief  of  a  scholar 
of  our  own  day  in  the  reality  of  the  art  of  which  he  records  the  history — in- 
sists much  on  the  necessity  of  rigidly  observing  Le  Tenia  ire.  iu  the  uumlidr 
uf  pevaeus  who  assist  in  an  enchanter's  experiment. 


288  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

We  walked  on  for  some  minutes  in  musing  silence,,  and  the  rude 
log  but  in  which  my  wise  companion  had  his  home  came  in  view  ; 
flocks  grazing  on  undulous  pastures,  the  kine  drinking  at  a 
watercourse  fringed  by  the  slender  gum-trees  ;  and  a  few  fields, 
laboriously  won  from  the  luxuriant  grass-land,  rippling  with  the 
wave  of  corn. 

I  halted,  and  said,  "Rest  here  for  a  few  moments,  till  I  gather 
up  the  conclusions  to  which  your  speculative  reasoning  seems  to 
invite  me." 

We  sat  down  on  a  rocky  crag*  half  mantled  by  luxuriant  creep- 
ers with  vermilion  buds. 

"  From  the  guesses,"  said  I,  "  which  you  have  drawn  from  the 
erudition  of  others  and  your  own  ingenious  and  reflective  induc- 
tions, i  collect  this  solution  of  the  mysteries,  by  which  the  expe- 
rience I  gain  from  my  senses  confounds  all  the  dogmas  approved 
by  my  judgment.  To  the  rational  conjectures  by  which,  when 
we  first  conversed  on  the  marvels  that  perplexed  me,  you  ascribed 
to  my  imagination,  predisposed  by  mental  excitement,  physical 
.  fatigue,  or  derangement,  and  a  concurrence  of  singular  events 
lending  to  strengthen  such  predisposition — the  phantasmal^  im- 
pressions produced  on  my  senses ;  to  these  conjectures  you  now 
add  a  new  one,  more  startling  and  less  admitted  by  sober  physi- 
ologists. You  conceive  it  possible  that  persons  endowed  with  a 
rare,  and  peculiar  temperament  can  so  operate  on  the  imagination, 
through  the  imagination,  on  the  senses  of  others,  as  to  exceed 
even  the  powers  ascribed  to  the  practitioners  of  mesmerism  and 
electro-biology,  and  give  a  certain  foundation  of  truth  to  the  old 
tales  of  magic  and  witchcraft.  You  imply  that  Margrave  may  be 
a  person  thus  gifted,  and  hence  the  influence  he  unquestionably  ex- 
ercised over  Lilian,  and  over,  perhaps,  less  innocent  agents,  charm- 
ed or 'impelled  by  his  will.  And  not  'discarding,  as  I  own  I  should 
have  been  originally  induced  to  do,  the  queries,  or  suggestions  ad- 
ventured by  Bacon  in  his  discursive  speculations  on  Nature,  tp-wit; 
'  that  there  be  many  things,  some  of  them  inanimate,  that  operate 
:  the  spirits  of  men  by  secret  sympathy  and  antipathy,'  and 
to  which  Bacon  gave  the  quaint  name  uf  '  imaginants  ;' so  even 
that  wand,  of  which  I  have  described  to  you  the  magic-like  effects, 
may  have  had  properties  communicated  to  it  by  which  it  performs 
the  work  of  the  magician,  as  mesmerists  pretend  that  some  Sub- 
stance mesmerized  by  them  can  act  on  the  patient  as  sensibly  as  if 
ir  were  the  mesinerizer  himself.  Do  I  state  your  suppositions  cor- 
rectly r 

"Yes;  always  remembering  that  they  are  only  suppositions, 
and  volunteered  with  the  utmost  diffidence.  But  since,  thus 
seated  in  theWrly  wilderness,  we  permit  ourselves  the  indulgence 
of  child-like  guess,  may  it  not  be  possible,  apart  from  the  doubt- 
ful question  whether  a  man  can  communicate  to  an  inanimate  ma- 
terial substance  a  power  to  act  upon  the  mind  or  imagination  of 


A    S'UAN'GE    STUKY.  289 

another  man — may  it  not,  [  say,  be  possible  that,  such  a  su 
may  contain  in  itself  such  a  Virtue  or  properiy  potenl  over 
certain  constitutions,  though  not  over  all.  For  instance,  it  is 
in  my  experience  that  the  common  hazel-wood  will  strongly  . 
some  nervous  temperaments,  though  without  effect  on  others. — 
I  remember  a  young  girl  who,  having  taken  up  a  hazel  stick 
freshly  cut,  could  not  relax  her  hold  of  it;  and  when  it  was  wrench- 
ed away  from 'her  by  force  was  irresistibly  attracted  towards  it, 
repossessed   herself  of  it,  and,  after   holding  it  a  few  minutes,  was 

into  a  hind  of  trance  in  which  she  beheld  phantasmal  visions. 
Mentioning  this  curious  case,  which  1  supposed  unique,  to  a  learn- 
"ed  brother  of  our  profession,  he  told  me  that  he  had  known  other 
instances  o  ct  of  the  hazel  upon  nervous  temperaments  in  pef- 

sous  of  both  sexes.     Possibly  it  was  some  such  peculiar'pro] 

■  hazel  thai  made  it  the  wood   selected  for  the  old  divining 
rod.     Again,  we  know  that  the  bay-tree  or  laurel  was  dedicated  to 
the  oracular  Pythian  Apollo.     Now  wherever,  in  the  old  world,  we 
find  that  the  learning  of  the  priests  enabled  them  to  exhibit  excep- 
tional phenomena  which  imposed  upon  popular  credulity,  then 
a  something-  or  other  which  it  is  worth  a  philosopher's  while  h 
plore.      And,    accordingly,    i   always   suspected   that   there    was 
in  the  laurel  some  property  favorable  to  ecstatic  vision  in  hi 
impressionable  temperaments.     My  Suspicion,  a  few  years  ago.  was 
justified  by  thy  experience  of  a  German  physician  who  had  under 
his  care  a  cataleptic  or  ecstatic  patient,  and   who  assured  me  that 

lund  nothing  in  this  patient  so  stimulated  the  state  of  •  sleep- 
waiting,'   or  so  disposed  that  state  to  indulge  in  the  hallucinations 
of  prevision,  as  the   berry  of  the  laurel*     Well,  we  do  not  know 
!  thai  produced  a  seemingly  magical  elicit  upon  you 
posed  of.     Von  did  not  notice  the  metal  empli 
in  the  wire  whi  i  inmunicated   a  thrill   to  -hive 

nerves  in  the  palm  of  the  hand.  You  cannot,  tell  how  far  it,  might 
have  been  the  vehicle  of  some  fluid  force  in  nature.  Or  still  more 
probablyrwhether  the  pores  of  your  hand  insensibly  imbibed,  and 
communicated  to  the  brain,  some  of  those  powerful  narcotics  from 
which  the  Boudhists  and  the  Arabs  make  unguents  thai  induce 
visionary  hallucinations,  and  in  which  substances  undetected  in 
the  hollow  of  the  wand,  or  the  handle  of  the  wand  itself,  might  be 
steeped. f  One  thing  we  do  know,  namely,  that,  amongsi  the  an- 
cients, and  especially  in  the  East,  the  construction  of  wands  for 
magical  purposes  was  no  common-place  mechanical  craft,  but  a 
special  and  secret  art  appropriated  to  men  who  cultivated  wi 


*  I  mar  add  that  Dr.Kerner  instances  the  effect  of  laurel-b«i 
Beeressof  Pravorst,  o'.irrcspouding  with  that  asserted  by  Julius  Faber  i;i  the 

.  t  See  for  these  oaguenta  the  work  of  M.  Maury  before  quoted,  L:i  MaRie 
et  l'Astrologk',  &C,  p.  417. 
to 


29Q\  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

siduity  all  that  was  then  known  of  natural  science  in  order  to  ex- 
tract from  it  agencies  t^bat  might  appear  supernatural.  Possibly, 
then,  the  rods  or  wands  of  the  East,  and  of  which  Scripture  makes 
mention,  were  framed  upon  some  principles  of  which  we  in  our  day 
are  very  naturally  ignorant,  since  we  do  not  ransack  science  for 
the  same  secrets.  And  thus  in  the  selection  or  preparation  of  the 
material  employed,  mainly  consisted,  whatever  may  be  referable 
to  natural  philosophical  causes,  in  the  antique  science  of  Rhabdo- 
mancy,  or  divination  and  enchantment  by  wands.  The  staff  or 
wand  of  which  you  tell  me,  was,  you  say,  made  of  iron  or  steel 
and  tipped  with  crystal.  Possibly  iron  and  crystal  do  really  con- 
tain some  properties  not  hitherto  scientifically  analyzed,  and  only, 
indeed,  potential  over  exceptional  temperaments,  which  may  ac- 
count for  the  fact  that  iron  and  crystal  have  been  favorites  with 
all  professed  mystics,  ancient  and  modern.  The  Delphic  Python- 
ess had  her  iron  tripod,  Mesmer,  his  iron  bed;  and  many  persons, 
indisputably  honest,  cannot  gaze  long  upon  a  ball  of  crystal  but 
what  they  begin  to  see  visions.  I  suspect  that  a  philosophical 
cause  for  such  seemingly  preternatural  effects  of  crystal  and  iron 
will  be  found  in  connection  with  the  extreme  impressionability  to 
changes  in  temperature  which  is  the  characteristic  both  of  crystal 
and  iron.  But  if  these  materials  do  contain  certain  powers  over 
exceptional  constitutions,  we  do  not  arrive  at  a  supernatural,  but 
at  a  natural  phenomenon." 

"  Still,"  said  I,  "  even  granting  that  your  explanatory  hypothe- 
sis hit  or  approach  the  truth — still  what  a  terrible  power  you 
would, assign  to  man's  will  overmen's  resignation." 

"  Man's  will,"  answered  Faber,  "  has  over  men's  deeds  and 
reason,  habitual  and  daily,  power  infinitely  greater,  and,  when 
uncounterbalanced,  infinitely  more  dangerous  than  that  which 
superstition  exaggerates  in  magic.  Man's  will  moves  a  war  that 
decimates  a  race  ;  and  leaves  behind  it  calamities  little  less  dire 
than  slaughter.  Man's  will  frames,  but  it  also  corrupts  laws; 
exalts,  but  also  demoralizes  opinion  ;  sets  the  world  mad  with 
V  fanaticism,  as  often  as  it  curbs  the  heart's  fierce  instincts  by  the 
wisdom  of  brolherlike  mercy.  You  revolt  at  the  exceptional,  limit- 
ed sway  over  some  two  or  three  individuals,  which  the  arts  of  a 
.  sorcerer  (if  sorcerer  there  be)  can  effect ;  and  yet,  at  the  very,  mo- 
ment.in  which  you  were  perplexed  and  appalled  by  such  sway,  or 
by  your  reluctant  belief  in  it,  your  will  was  devising  an  engine  to 
unsettle  the  reason  and  wither  the  hopes  of  millions  !" 

"  My  will  !     What  engine  ?" 

"  A  book  conceived  by  your  intellect,  adorned  by  your  learning, 
and  directed  by  your  will  to  steal  from  the  minds  of  other  men 
their  persuasion  of  the  soul's  everlasting  Hereafter." 

I  bowed  my  head,  and  felt  myself  grow  pale. 

"  And  if  we  accept  Bacon's  theory  of  '  secret  sympathy,'  or  the 
plainer  physiological  maxiua  that  there  muat  be  in  the  imagination 


A    8TKAi\OB    STOKY.  291 

morbidly  impressed  by  the  will  of  another,  some  trains  of  idea  in 
affinity  with  such  influence  and  pre-inclined  to  receive  it.  no  ma- 
gician could  war])  you  to  evil,  except  through  thoughts  that  them- 
selves went  astray.  Grant  that  the  Margrave,  who  stijl  haunts 
your  mind,  did  really,  by  some  occult,  sinister  magnetism,  guide 
the  madman  to  murder — did  influence  the  servant  woman's  vulgar 
desire  to  pryintothe  secrets  of  her  ill-fated  master — or  the  old 
maid's  covetous  wish  and  envious  malignity — what  could  this  awful 
magician  do  more  than  any  commonplace  guilty  adviser,  to  a  mind 
predisposed  to  accept  the  advice  .'"* 

"  You  forget  one  example  which  destroys  your  argument — the 
spell  which  this  mysterious  fascinator  could  cast  upon  a  creature 
so  pure  from  all  guilt  as  Lilian  !" 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  answer  frankly  .'" 

"  Speak." 

"  Your  Lilian  is  spotless  and  pure,  as  you  deem  her.  and  the 
fascination,  therefore,  attempts  no  lure  through  a  sinful  desire  :  it 
blends  with  its  attraction  no  sentiment  of  affection  untrue  to  your- 
self, s  justice  to  your  Lilian,  and  may  be  a  melancholy 
comfort  to  .Mm.  to  state  my  conviction,  based  on  the  answers  my 
questions  have  drawn  from  her,  that  you  were  never  more 
cherished  by  her  love  than  when  that  love  seemed  to  forsake 
you.  Her  imagination  impressed  her  with  the  illusion  that 
through  your  love  lor  her  yon  were  threatened  with,  a  great  peril. 
What  seemed  the  levi  y  of  her  desertion  was  the  devotion  of  self- 
sacrifioe.  And,  in  her  strange,  dream-led  wanderings,  do  not  think 
that  she  was  conscious  of  the  fascination  you  impute  to  this  mys- 
terious Margrave  ;  in  her  belief,  it  was  your  own  guardian  angel 
that  guided  her  Steps,  and  her  pilgrimage  was  ordained  to  disarm 
the  foe  that  menaced  you,  and  dissolve  the  spell  that,  divided  her 
life  from  yours  !  Lot.  had  she  not  long  before  this  wilfully  prepared 
herself  to  be  so  deceived  ?  Had  not  her  fancies  been  deliberately 
encouraged  to  dwell  remote  from  the  duties  we  are  placed  on  the 
earth  to  perform  ?  The  loftiest  faculties  in  our  nature  are  tHose 
that  demand  the  finest  poise,  not  to  fall  from  their  height,  and  crush 
all  the  walls  that  they  crown.  With  exquisite  beauty  of  illustra- 
tion, Hume  says  of  the  dreamers  of  'bright  fancies,'  'that  they 
may  be  compared  to  those  angels  whom  the  Scriptures  represent  as 
covering  their  eyes  with  their  wings.'  Had  you  been,  like,  my 
nephew,  a  wrestler  for  bread  with  the  wilderness,  what  helpmate 
would  your  Lilian  have  been  to  you  .'  How  often  would  you  have 
cried  out  in  justifiable  anger,  '  1,  son  of  Adam,  am  on  earth,  not 
in  paradise.  Oh,  that  my  Lve  were  at  home  on  my  hearth,  and 
not  in  the  skies  with  the  seraphs!'  No  Margrave,  I  venture  to 
say.  could  have  suspended  the  healthful  affections,  or  charmed  into 
danger  the  wlde-awke  soul,  of  my  Amy.  When  she  rocks  in  its 
cradle  tiie  babe,  the  young  parents  entrusts  to  her  heed — when  she 
calls  the  Line  to  the  milking,  the  chicks  to  their  eoru — when  she 


'i^i  -  A    STKAKi-K    ITOBIY. 

but  flits  through  my  room  to  renew  the  flowers  on  the  stand,  or  . 
range  in  neat  order  the  books  that  I  read— no  spell  on  her  fancy 
could  lead  her  a  step  from  the  range  of  her  provident  cares!  At 
day,  she  is  contented  to  be  on  the  common-place  earth  ;  at  even- 
ing, she  and  I  knock  together  at  lite  one  door  of  heaven,  which 
opes  to  thanksgiving  and  prayer,  and  thanksgiving  and  prayer 
send  us  back,  calm  and  hopeful,  to  the  tasks  that  each  morrow 
renews." 

I  looked  up  as  the  old  man  paused,  and  in  the  limpid  clearnei  s 
of  the  Australian  atmosphere,  1  saw  the  child  he  thus  praised, 
standing  by  the  garden-gate,  looking  towards  us,  and,  though 
still  distant,  she  seemed  near.  I  felt  wroth  with  her.  My 
heart  so  cherished  my  harmless,  defenceless  Lilian,  that  I  was 
jealous  of  the  praise  taken  from  her  to  be  bestowed  on  an- 
other. 

"Each  of  us,''  said  1,  coldly.  •' has  his  or  her  own  nature, 
and  the  uses  harmonious  to  that  nature's  idiosyncrasy.  The 
World,  1  grant,  would  get  on  very  ill.  if  women  were  not,  more 
or  less,  actively  useful  and  quietly  good,  like  your  Amy.  But 
the  world  would  lose  standards  that  exalt  and  refine,  if  no 
women  were  permitted  to  gain,  through  the  influence  of  fancy, 
thoughts  exquisite  as  those  which  my  Lilian  conceived,  v 
thought,  alas,  flowed  out  of  fancy.  I  do  not  wound  you  by  citing 
your  Amy  as  a  type  of  the  mediocre.  I  do  not  claim  for  Lilian 
■e  accord  to  the  type  of  genius.  But  both  are  alike 
io  such  types  in  this:  namely,  that  the  uses  of  mediocrity  are 
for  every-day  life,  and  he  uses  of  genius,  amidst  a  thousand  mis- 
takes which  mediocrity  never  commits,  are  to  suggest  aud' per- 
petuate ideas  which  raise  the  standard  of  the  mediocre  to  a  nobler 
level.  There  Would  be' fewer  Amyt  in  life,  if  there  were  no  Lilian! 
as  there  would  be  far  fewer  good  men  of  sense,  if  there  were  no 
erring  of  genius  !  " 

"  You  say  well,  Allen  Fenwick.  And  who  should -be  so  indul- 
gent to  the  vagaries  of  the  imagination  as  the  philosophers  who 
taught  your  youth  to  doubt  every  thing  in  the  Maker's  plan  of 
creation  which  Could  not  be  mathematically  proved.  'The  human 
mind,' said  Luther,  '  is  like  a  drunkard  on  horseback;  prop  it  on 
one  side,  and  it  falls1  on  the  other.'  So  the  man  who  is  much  too 
enlightened  to  believe  in  a  peasant's  religion,  is  always  sure  to  set 
up  some  insane  superstition  of  his  own.  Open  biographical  vol- 
umes wherever  you  please,  and  the  man  who  has  no  faith  in  reli- 
gion, is  a  man  who  has  a  faith  in  a  nightmare.  See  that  type  of 
the  el  gan  sceptics — Lord  Herbert,  of  Cherbury.  He  is  writing 
a  book  against  Eevelation — he  asks  a  sign  from  heaven  to  tell  him 
if  his  book  is  approved  by  his  Maker,  and  the  man  who  cannot  be- 
lieve in  the  miracles  performed  by  his  Saviour,  gravely  tells  us  of 
a  miracle  vouchsafed  to  himself.  Take  the  hardest  and  strongest 
intelleot  which  vha  hardest  and  strongest    racy  of  mankind  ever 


A    STRANGE'  STORY.  293 

schooled  and  accomplished.  Sec  fVe  greatest  of  great  men,  the 
great  vJulius  CffisarJ  Publicly  h£  asserts  in  the  Senate,  that  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  is  a  vain  chimera,  lie  professes  the  creed 
which  Roman  voluptuaries  deduced  fro  a  Epicurus,  and  denies  all 
Divine  interference  in  the  affairs  of  the  earth.  A  great  authority 
for  the  materialists — they  have  none  greater!  They  can  show  on 
their  side  no  intellect  equal  to  Caesar's  !  and  yet  this  magnificent 
free-thinker,  rejecting  a  soul  and  a  Deity,  habitually,  on  entering 
his  chariot,  muttered  a  charm  ;  crawled  on  his  knees  up  the  steps 
of  a  temple  to  propitiate  the  abstraction  called  'Nemesis;*  and 
did  not  cross  the  Rubioon  till  he  had  consulted  the  omens.  What 
does  all  this  prove  .'—a  very  simple  truth.  Man  has  some  instincts 
with  the  .brutes;  for  instance,  hunger  and  sexual  love.  Man  has 
one  instinct  peculiar  to  himself,  found  universally  (or  with  alleged 
exceptions  in  savage  states  so  rare,  that  they  do  not  affect  the  gen- 
eral law)* — an  instinct  of  an  invisible  power  without  this  earth, 
and  of  a  life  beyond  the  grave,  which  that  power  vouchsafes  to  his 
spirit.  But  the  best  of  us  cannot  violate  an  instinct  with  im- 
punity. Resist  hunger  as  long  as  you  can,  and,  rather  than  die 
of  starvation,  your  instinct  will  make  you  a  cannibal;  resist  love 
when  youth  and  nature  impel  to  it.  and  what  pathologist  does  not 
track-  one  broad  path  into  madness  or  crime  I  So  with  the  noblest 
instinct,  of  all.  Reject  the  internal  conviction  by  which  the  grand- 
est, thinkers  have  sanctioned  the  hope  of  the  humbles;  Christian, 
and  you  are  servile  at  once  to  some  faith  inconceivably  more  hard 
to  believe.  The  imagination  will  not  be  withheld  from  its  yearn- 
ing for  vistas  beyond  the  walls  of  the.  flesh  and  the  span  of  the 
present  hour.  Philosophy  itself,  in  rejecting  the  healthful  creeds 
by  which  man  finds  his  safeguards  in  sober  prayer",  and  Ins  guide 
through  the  wilderness  of  visionary  doubt,,  invents  systems  com- 
pared to  which  the  mysteries  of  theologj  are  simple.  Suppose 
any  man  of  strong,  plain  understanding  had  never  heard  of  a 
Deity  like  Dim  whom  we  Christians  adore,  then  ask  this  man 
Whom  he  can  the  belter  comprehend  in  his  mind,  and  accept  as  a 
natural  faith,  namely,  the  simple  Christianity  of  your  shepherd  or 
the  Pantheism  of  Spinoza-?  Place  before  an  accomplished  critic 
(who  comes  with  a  perfectly  unprejudiced  mind,  to  either  inquiry), 

*  It  seems  extremely  doubtful  whether  the  very  tew  instances  in  which  it 

has  been  asserted  that  a  Bavage  race  has  been  found  without  recognition  (if  a, 

Deity  and  a  future  state  would  bear  searching  examination.     It  is  set  forth, 

ample,  in  most  of  the  popular  works  on  Australia,  that  the  Australian 

es  have  no  potion  of  a   Deity  or  a    Herafter,  that  they  only  worship  a 

orevil  spirit.     This  assumption,  though  made  .more  peremptorily,  and 

reater  number  of  writers  than  any  similar  one  regarding  other  ss 

ether  erroneous,,  and  has  no  other  foundation  than  the  ignorance  of  the 

writers.    The  Australian  savages  recognize  a  Deity,  hut  lie  is  too  august  for 

a  name  in  their  own  language  ;  in  English  they  call   Him  the  Great  Master — 

pression  synonymous  with  "The  (treat  Lord."    They  believe  in  a  here- 

!'  external  joy,  and  place  it  amongst  the  stars. — See  Strzelechi's  Phy- 

ical  Description  of  New  South  Wales  , 


394  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

0 

first,  the  arguments  of  David/Hume  against  the  Gospel  miracles, 
and  then  the  metaphysical  crotchets  of  David  Hume  himself.  This 
subtle  philosopher,  not  content,  with  B  rkeley,  to  get  rid  of  matter 
— not  content,  with  Condillac,  to  get  rid  of  spirit  or  mind — pro- 
ceeds to  a  miracle  greater  than  any  his  Maker  has  yet  vouchsafed 
to  reveal.  He,  being  then  alive,  and  in  the  act  of  writing,  gets 
rid  of  himself  altogether.  Nay,  he  confesses  he  cannot  reason 
with  any  one  who  is  stupid  enough  to  think  e  has  a  self.  His 
words  are  :  '  What  we  call  a  mind  is  nothing  but  a  heap  or  collec- 
tion of  different  perceptions  or  objects  united  together  by  certain 
relations,  and  supposed,  though  falsely,  to  be  endowed  with  per- 
fect  simplicity  and  identity.  If  any  one  upon  serious  and  candid 
reflection  thinks  he  has  a  different  notion  of  himself,  I  must  con- 
fess I  can  reason  with  him  no  longer.'  Certainly  I  would  rather 
believe  all  the  ghost  stories  upon  record,  than  believe  that  1  am  not. 
even  ;i  ghost/  distinct  and  apart  from  the  perceptions  conveyed  to 
me,  no  matter  how — ■just  as  1  am  distinct  and  apart  from  the  furni- 
ture in  my  room,  no  matter  whether  I  found  it  there  or  whether  I 
bought  it.  If  some  old  cosmogonist  asked  you  to  believe  that 
the  primitive  cause  of  the  solar  system  was  not  to  oe  traced  to  a 
Divine  Intelligence,  but  to  a  nebulosity,  originally  so  diffuse  that 
its  existence  can  with  difficulty  he  conceived,  and  that  the  origin 
of  the  present  system  of  organized  beings  equally  dispensed 
with  the  agency  of  a  Creative  Mind,  and  could  be  referred  to 
molecules  formed  in  the  water  by  the  power  of  attraction,  till,  by 
modifications  of  cellular  tissue  in  the  gradual  lapse  of  ages,  one 
monad  became  an  oyster  and  another  a  Man — would  you  nut  say 
this  cosmogony  could  scarcely  have  misled  the  human  understand- 
ing even  in  the  earliest  dawn  of  speculative  inquiry?  Yet  such 
are  the  hypothesises  to  which  the  desire  to  philosophize  away  that 
le  proposition  of  a  Divine  First  Cause,  which  every  child  can 
comprehend,  led  two  of  the  greatest  geniuses  and  profoundest 
reasoners  of  modern  times,  La  Place  and  La  Marck*  Certainly, 
the  more  you  examine  those  arch  phantasmagorists,  the  philoso- 
phers, who  would  leave  nothing  in  the  universe  but  their  own  de- 
licious, the  more  your  intellectual  pride  may  be  humbled.  The 
wildest  phenomena  which  have  startled  you,  are  not  more  extrava- 
gant than  the  grave  explanations  which  intellectual  presumption 
adventures  on  the  elements  of  our  own  organism  and  the  relations 
between  the  world  of  matter  and  the  world  of  ideas." 

Here  our  conversation  stopped,  for  Amy  had  now  joined  us,  and, 
looking  up  to  reply,  1  saw  the  child's  innocent  face  between  me 
and  the  farrowed  brow  of  the  old  man. 

*  See  tbe  observations  of  La  Place  and  La  Marck  in  the  introduction  to 
Kirlne  Bridgwater  Treatise. 


A    »TRA\«B    STORY.  29* 


CHAPTER  LXXI1. 

I  turned  back  alone.  The  sun  was  reddening  the  summits  of 
the  distant  mountain  range,  but  dark  clouds,  that  portended  rain, 
were  gathering  behind  my  way  and  deepening  the  shadows  in  many 
a  Chasm  and  hollow  which  volcanic  (ires  had  wrought  on  the  sur- 
face of  uplands  undulating  like  dilnvian  billows  fixed  into  stone  in 
the  midst  of  their  stormy  swell.  I  wandered  on,  and  away  from 
the  beaten  track,  absorbed  in  thought.  Could  I  acknowledge  in 
Julius  Faber's  conjectures  any  bases  for  logical  ratiocination?  or 
were  they  not  the  ingenious  fancies  of  that  empirical  Philosophy  of 
Sentiment  by  which  the  aged.  In  the  decline  of  severeror  faculties, 
sometimes  assimilate  their  theories  to  the  hazy  romance  of  youth  1 
I  can  well  conceive  that  the  story  I  tell  will  be  regarded  by  most 
as  a  Wild  and  fantastic  fable;  thai  by  some  it  may  be  considered  a 
vehicle  for  guesses  at  various  riddles  of  Nature,  without  or  within 
us.  which  are  free  to  the  license  of  romance,  though  forbidden  to  the 
caution  of  science.  But  I — I — know  unmistakably  my  own  identi- 
ty, my  own  positive  place  in  a  substantial  universe.  And  beyond 
that  knowledge  what  do  I  Know.  Yet  had  Faber  no  ground  for 
Ids  startling  parallels  between  the  chimeras  of  superstition  and  the  • 
alternatives  to  faith  volunteered  by  the  metaphysical  speculations 
of  knowledge.  On  the  theorems  of  Condillac,  I,  in  common  with 
numberless  contemporaneous  students  (for,  in  my  youth,  Condillac 
held  sway  in  the  schools,  as  now,  driven  forth  from  the  schools,  his 
opinions  float  loose  through  the  talk  and  the  scribble  of  men  of  the 
world,  who  perhaps  never  opened  his  page) — on  the  theorems  of 
OondillaC  I  had  built  up  a  system  of  thought  'designed  to  immure 
the  swathed  form  of  material  philosophy  from  all  rays  and  all 
sounds  of  a  world  not  material,  as  the  walls  of  some  blind  mauso- 
leum shut  out  from  the  mummy  within,  the  whisper  of  winds,  and 
the  gleaming  of  stars. 

And  did  not  those  very  theorems,  when  carried  out  to  their  strict 
and  completing  results  by  the  (dose  reasonings  of  Hume,  resolve 
my  own  living  identity,  the  one  conscious  indivisible  me,  into  a 
bundle  of  memories  derived  from  the  senses,  which  had  bubbled 
and  duped  my  experience,  and  reduce  into  a  phantom,  as  spectral 
as  that  of  the  Luminous  Shadow,  the  whole  solid  frame  of  creation  ( 

While  pondering  these  questions,  the  storm,  whose  ton-warnings 
I  had  neglected  1o  heed,  burst  forth  with  ail  the  suddenness  pecu- 
liar to  the  Australian  climes.  The  rains  descended  like  the  rush- 
ing of  Hoods.  In  the  beds  of  watercourses,  which,  at  noon, seemed 
dried  up  and  exhausted,  the  torreuU  bejjan  to  swell  and  to  rave  ;  the 


296  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

gray  crags  around  them  were  animated  into  living  waterfalls.  I 
looked  round,  and  the  landscape  was  as  changed  as  a  scene  that  re- 
places a  scene  on  a  player's  stage.  I  was  aware  that  I  had  wan- 
dered far  from  my  home,  and  1  knew  not  what  direction  I  should  ■ 
take  to  reg-ain  it.  Close  at  hand,  and  raised  above  the  torrents 
that  now  rushed  in  many  a  gully  and  tributary  creek  around  and 
before  me,  the  mouth  of  a  deep  cave,  overgrown  with  bushes  and 
creeping  flowers  tossed  wildly  to  and '  fro  between  the  rain  from 
above  and  the  spray  of  cascades  below,'  offered  a  shelter  from  the 
storm.  I  entered  ;  scaring  innumerable  flocks  of  bats,  striking 
against  me,  blinded  by  the  glare  of  the  lightning  that  followed  me 
into  the  cavern  ;  and  hastening  to  resettle  themselves  on  the  pen- 
dants of  stalactites,  or  the  jagged  buttresses  of  primeval  wall. 

From  time  to  time  the  lightning  darted  into  the  gloom  and 
lingered  among  its  shadows,  and  I  saw,  by  the  flash,  that  the  floors 
on  which  1  stood  were  strewed  with  strange  bones,  some  among 
them  the  fossilized  relics  of  races  destroyed  by  the  deluge.  The 
rain  continued  for  more  than  two  hours  with  unabated  violence; 
then  it  ceased  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come  on.  And  the 
lustrous  moon  of  Australia  burst  from  the  clouds,  shining,  bright 
as  an  English  dawn  into  the  hollows  of  the  cave.  And  then  sim- 
ultaneously arose,  all  the  choral  songs  of  the  wilderness — creatures 
whose  voices  are  heard  at  night,  the  loud  whirr  of  the  locusts,  the 
musical  boom  of  the  bull-frog,  the  cuckoo  note  of  the  morepork, 

mournful  amid  all  those  merrier  sounds,  the  hoot  of  the  owl, 
through  the  wizard  she  oaks  and  the  pale  green  of  the  gum-trees. 

lepped  forth  into  the  open  air  and  gazed,  first  instinctively  on  ' 
the  heavens,  next,  with  more  heedful  eye,. upon  the  earth.  The 
nature  of  the  soil  bore  the  evidence  of  volcanic  fires  long  since  ex- 
tinguished. Just  before  my  feet  the  rays  fell  upon  a  bright  yellow 
streak  in  the  midst  of  a  block  of  quartz,  half  embedded  in  the  soft, 
most  soil.  In  the  midst  of  all  the  solemn  thoughts  and  the  intense 
sorrows  which  weighed  upon  heart  and  mind,  that  yellow  gleam 
startled  the  mind  in  a  direction  remote  from  philosophy,  quickened 
the  heart  to  a  beat  that  chimed  with  no  household  affections. — 
Involuntarily  I  stooped ;  impulsively  I  struck  the  block  with  the 
hatchet,  or  tomahawk,  I  carried  habitually  about  me,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  marking  the  trees  that  I  wished  to  clear  from  the  waste  of 
my  broad  domain.  The  quartz  was  shattered  by  the  stroke,  and 
left  disburied  its  glittering  treasure.  My  first,  glance  had  not  de- 
ceived me.  I,  vain  seeker  after  knowledge,  had,  at  least,  discover- 
ed gold. ,  I  took  up  the  bright  metal  ; — gold  !  I  paused  ;  I  looked 
round  ;  the  land  that  just  before  had  seemed  to  me  so  worthless, 
took  the  value  of  Ophir.  Its  features  had  before  been  as  unknown 
as  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  now  my  memory  became 
wonderfully  quickened.  I'  recalled  the  rough  map  of  my  pos- 
sessions, the  first  careless  ride  round  their  boundaries.  Yes,  the 
land  on  which  I  stood — for   miles,  to  the  spur  of  those  further 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  297 

mountains — the  land  was  mine,  and.  beneath  its  surface,  there  was 
gold  !  I  closed  ray  eyes;  for  some  moments,  visions  of  boundless 
wealth)  and  of  the  royal  power  which  such  wealth  could  command, 
swept  athwart  my  brain.  But  my  heart  rapidly  settled  back  to  its 
real  treasure.  "  What  matters."  1  sighed,  "all  this  dross  I  Could 
Ophir  itself  buy  hack  to  my  Lilian's  smile  one  ray  of  the  light 
which  gave  '  dory  (jp  the  grass  and  splendor  to  the  flower 

So  muttering,  1  flung  the  gold  into  the  torrent  that  raged  below, 
and  went  on  through  the  moonlight,  sorrowing  silently  ;  only  thank- 
ful for  the  discovery  that  had  quickened  my  reminiscence  of  the 
landmarks  by  which  to  steer  my  way  through  the  wilderness. 

The  night  was  half  gone,  for  even  when  1  had  gained  the  fami- 
liar trade  through  the  pastures,  the  swell  of  the  many  winding 
creeks  that  now  intersected  the  way;  obliged  me  often  to  retrace 
my.  steps  ;  to  find,  sometimes,  the  bridge  of  a  felled  tree  which  had 
been  providently  left  unremoved  over  the  now  foaming  torrent. 
more  than  once,  to  swim  across  the  current,  in  which  swim- 
mers less  strong  or  less  practiced,  would  have  been  dashed  down 
the  falls,  where  loose  logs  and  torn  trees  went  clattering  and  whirl- 
ed :  for  1  was  in  danger  of  life.  A  baud  of  the  savage  natives  ■ 
stealthily  creeping  on  my  track — the  natives  in  those  parts  were 
not  then  so  much  awed  by  the  white  man  as  now.  A  boomerang* 
had  whirred  by  me,  burying  itself  among  the  herbage  close  before 
my  feet.  I  had  turned,  sought  to  find  and  to  face  these  dastardly 
fees  ;  ihey  had  contrived  to  elude  me.  But  when  I  moved  on,  my 
ear.  sharpened  by  danger,  heard  them  moving  too  in  my  rear. — 
Once  only  three  hideous  forms  suddenly  faced  me,  springing  up 
from  a  thicket,  all  tangled  with  honey-suckles  and  creepers  of  blue 
and  vermilion.  I  walked  steadily  up  to  them;  they  hailed  a  mo- 
ment or  so  in  suspense,  but  perhaps  they  were  seared  by  my  stature 
or  awed  by  my  aspect  ;  and  the  Unfamiliar,  though  Human,  had 
terror  for  them,  as  the  Unfamiliar,  although  but  a  Shadow,  had 
had  terror  for  me.  They  vanished,  and  as  quickly  as  if  they  had 
crept  Into  the  earth. 

.At  length  the  air  brought  me  the  soft  perfume  of  my  well-known 
acacias,  and  my  house  rose  before  me,  amidst  English  flowers  and 
.ish  fruit-trees,  under  the  effulgent  Australian  moon.  Just  as] 
was  opening  the  little  gate  which  gave  access  from  the  pasture- 
land  into  the  garden,  a  figure  in  while  rose  up  from  under  light 
feathery  boughs,  and  a  hand  was  hud  on  my  arm.  1  started  ;  but: 
my  surprise  was  changed  into  fear  when    I   saw  the  pale  face  and 

"Heavens!    you   here!    you!    at    this    hour!       Lilian   what   is 
this?" 
"Hush!"  she  whispered,  clinging  to  me;  '•hush!  do  nol  tell*; 
OWS.     1    missed   you    when    the  storm  came  on  ;   I  have 


A  missile  weapon  peculiar  re  the  Australian 


298  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

missed  you  ever  since.  Others  went  in  search  of  you  and  came 
b'ack.  I  could  not  sleep,  but  the  rest  are  sleeping,  so  I  stole  down 
to  watch  for  you.  Brother,  brother,  if  any  harm  chanced  to  you, 
even  the  angels  could  not  comfort  me  ;  all  would  be  dark,  dark  ! 
But  you  are  safe,  safe,  safe  !"     And  she  clung  to  me  yet  closer. 

"  Ah,  Lilian,  Lilian,  your  vision  in  the  hour  I  first  beheld  you 
was  indeed  prophetic — '  Each  has  need  of  the  other.'  Do  you 
remember  1" 

"  Softly,  softly  !"  she*  said,  "  let  me  think  !"  She  stood  quietly 
by  my  side,  looking  up  into  the  sky,  with  all  its  numberless  stars, 
and  its  solitary  moon  now  sinking  slow  behind  the  verge  of  the 
forest.  "  It  comes  back  to  me,"  she  murmured,  softly — "  the 
Long  ago — the  sweet  Long  ago  !" 

I  held  my  breath  to  listen. 

"There — there!"  she  resumed,  pointing  to  the  heavens;  "do 

you  see  ?     You  are  there,  and  my  father,  and — and Oh,  that 

terrible  face — those  serpent  eyes — the  dead  man's  skull !  Save 
me — save  me  !" 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  my  bosom,  and  I  led  her  gently  back 
toward  the  house.  As  we  gained  the  door  which  she  had  left 
open,  the  starlight  shining  across  the  shadowy  gloom  within,  she 
lifted  her  face  from  my  breast  and  cast  a  hurried,  fearful  look 
round  the  shining  garden,  then  into  the  dim  recess  beyond  the 
threshold.  % 

"  It  is  there— there ! — the  Shadow  that  lured  me  on,  whispering 
that  if  I  followed  it  I  should  join  my  beloved.  False,  dreadful 
Shadow!  it  will  fade  soon,  fade  into  the  grinning,  horrible  skull. 
Brother,  brother,  where  is  my  Allen  ?  Is  he  dead — dead — or  is  it 
I  who  am  dead  to  him  ?" 

I  could  hut  clasp  her  again  to  my  breast,  and  seek  to  mantle 
her  shivering  form  with  my  dripping  garments,  all  the  while  my 
eyes,  following  the  direction  which  hers  had  taken,  dwelt  on  the 
walls  of  the  nook  within  the  threshold,  half  lost  in  darkness,  half 
white  in  starlight.  And  there  I  too  beheld  the  haunting  Luminous 
Shadow,  the  spectral  effigies  of  the  mysterious  being  whose  very 
existence  in  the  flesh  was  a  riddle  unsolved  by  my  reason.  Dis- 
tinctly I  saw  the  Shadow,  but  its  light  was  far  paler,  its  outline 
far  more  vague  than  when  I  had  beheld  it  before.  I  took  cour- 
age, as  I  felt  Lilian's  heart  beating  against  my  own.  I  advanced 
— I  crossed  the  threshold — the  Shadow  was  gone. 

"  There  is  no  Shadow  here — no  phantom  to  daunt  thee,  my  life's 
life,"  said  I  bending  over  Lilian. 

"It  has  touched  me  in  passing;  I  feel  it — cold,  cold,  cold!  " 
she  answered,  faintly. 

I  bore  her  to  her  room,  placed  her  on  her  bed,  struck  a  light, 
watched  over  her.  At  dawn  there  was  a  change  in  her  face,  and 
from  that  time  health  gradually  left  her  ;  strength  slowly,  slowly, 
yet  to  me  perceptibly,  ebbed  from  her  life  away. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  299 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 


Months  upon  months  have  rolled  away  since  the  night  in  which 
Lilian  had  wa.tehed  for  my  coming  amidst  the  chilling  airs  under 
the  haunting  moon.     T  have  said  that  from  the  date  of  that  nigbl 

her  health  began  gradually  to  fail,  but  in  her  mind  there  was  i 
deiilly  at  work  some  slow  revolution.  Her  visionary  abstractions 
were  less  frequent  ;  when  they  occurred,  less  prolonged.  There 
was  no  longer  in  her  soft  face  that  oelestial  serenity  which  spoke 
•ntent  in  her  dreams  ;  but  often  a  look  of  anxiety  and  trouble. 
.She  was  even  more  silent,  than  before  ;  but  when  she  did  speak. 
there  were  now  evident  some  struggling  gleams  of  memory.  She 
startled  us  at  times  by  a  distinct  allusion  to- the  events  and  SC< 
of  her  early  childhood.  More  than  mice  she  spoke  of  common- 
place incidents  and  mere   acquaintances  at  L .     At  last   she 

seemed  to  recognize  Mrs.  Ashleigh  as  her  mother;  but  me,  as 
Allen  Fenwick,  her  betrothed,  her  bridegroom,  no!  Once  or 
twice  she  spoke  to  me  of  her  beloved  as  of  a  stranger  to  myself, 
and  asked  me  not  to  deceive  her — should  she  ever  see  him  again  ? 
There  was  one  change  in  Ibis  new  phase  of  her  stale  that  wounded 
me  to  the  quick.  She  had  always  previously  seemed  to  weir. 
my  presence  ;  now  there  were  hours,  sometimes  days  together,  in 
winch  my  presence  was  evidently  painful  to  her.  She  would  be- 
agitated  when  1  stole  into  her  room — make  signs  to  me  to 
her — grow  yet  more  disturbed  if  I  did  not  immediately 
obey,  and  become  calm  again  when  1  was  gone. 

Faber  sought  constantly  to  sustain  my  courage,  and  administer 
to  my  hopes  by  reminding  me  of  the  prediction  he  had  hazarded — 
namely,  that  through  some  malady  to  the  frame  the  reason  would 
be  ultimately  restored. 

He  said,  "  Observe  !  her  mind  was  first  roused  from  its  slumber 
by  the  affectionate,  unoonquered  impulse  of  her  heart.  Y' •  > u ' 
were  absent — the  storm  alarmed  her — she  missed  you — feared  for 
you.  The  love  within  her,  not  alienated,  though  latest,  drew  her 
thoughts  into  definite  human  tracks.  And  thus  the  words  that  you 
tell  me  she  uttered  when  you  appeared  before  her,  were  words  of 
love,  stricken,  though  as  yet.  irregularly,  as  the  winds  strike  the* 
harp-strings,  from  chords  of  awakened  memory.  The  same  un- 
wonted excitement,  together  with  lengthened  exposure  to  the  cold 
night  air,  will  account  for  the  shock  to  her  physical  system, 
and  the  language  and  waste  of  strength  by  which  it  has  been  suc- 
ceeded." 

"  Ay,  and  the  Shadow  that  wo  both  saw  vvilhin  the  threshold. — 
What  of  that?" 


300  A   STRANGE   STORY. 

•  "Are  there  no  ,  records  on  evidence,  which  most  physicians  of 
very  extended  practice  will  perhaps  allow  that  their  experience 
more  or  less  tends  to  confirm — no  records  of  the  singular  coinci- 
dences between  individual  impressions  which  are  produced  by 
sympathy  1  Now,  whether  you  or  your  Lilian  were  first  haunted 
by  this  Shadow,  I  know  not.  Perhaps  before  it  appeared  to  you 
in  the  wizard's  chamber,  it  had  appeared  to  her  by  the  Monk's 
Well.  Perhaps  as  it  came  to  you  in  the  prison,  so  it  lured  her 
through  the  solitudes,  associating  its  illusory  guidance  with  dreams 
of  you.  And  again,  when  she  saw  it  within  your  threshold,  your 
phantasy,  so  abruptly  invoked,  made  you  see  with  the  eyes  of 
your  Lilian !  Does  this  doctrine  of  sympathy,  though  by  that 
very  mystery  you  two  loved  each  other  at  first — though,  without 
it,  love  at  first  sight  were  in  itself  an  incredible  miracle— does,  I 
say,  this  doctrine  of  sympathy  seem  to  you  inadmissible  ?  Then 
nothing  is  left  for  us  but  to  revolve  the  conjecture  I  before  threw 
out  1  Have  certain  organizations  like  that  of  Margrave,  the  power 
to  impress,  through  space,  the  imaginations  of  those  over  whom 
they  have  forced  a  control ']  I  know  not.  But  if  they  have,  it  is 
not  supernatural ;  it  is  but  one  of  those  operations  in  nature  so 
rare  and  exceptional,  and  of  which  testimony  and  evidence  are  so 
imperfect  and  so  liable  to  superstitious  illusions,  that  they  have 
apt  yet  been  traced  ;  as,  if  truthful,  no  doubt  they  can  be,  by  the 
patient  genius  of  science,  to  one  of  those  secondary  causes  by 
which  the  Creator  ordains  that  Nature  shall  act  On  Man." 

By  degrees  I  became  dissatisfied  with  my  conversations  with 
Faber.  1  yearned  for  explanations  ;  all  guesses  but  bewildered 
me  more.  In  his  family,  with  one  exception,  I  found  no  conge- 
nial association.  His  nephew  seemed  to  me  an  ordinary  specimen 
of  a  very  trite  human  nature — a  young  man  of  limited  ideas,  fair 
moral  tendencies,  wing  mechanically  right  where  not  tempted  to 
wrong.  The  same  desire  of  gain  which  had  urged  him  to  gamble 
and  speculate  when  thrown  into  societies  rife  with  such  examples, 
led  him,  now  in  the  Bush,  to  healthful,  industrious,  persevering 
labor.  Spesforet  agricolas,  says  the  poet;  the  same  Hope  which 
entices  the  fish  to  the  hook  impels  the  plough  to  the  husbandman. 
The  young  farmer's  young  wife  was  somewhat  superior  to  him  ; 
she  had  mor,e  refinement  of  taste,  more  culture  of  mind,  but,  liv- 
ing in  his  life,  she  was  inevitably  leveled  to  Ids  ends  and  pursuits. 
And,  next  to  the  babe  in  the  cradle,  no  object  seemed  to  her  so 
important  as  that -of  guarding  the  sheep  from  the  scab  and  the 
dingoes.  I  was  amazed  to  see  how  quietly  a  man  whose  mind 
was  so  stored  by  life,  and  by  books  as  that  of  Julius  Faber — a 
man  who  had  loved  the  clash  of  conflicting  intellects,  and  ac- 
quired the  rewards  of  fame — could  accommodate  himself  to  the 
cabined  range  of  his  kinsfolk's  half-civilized  existence,  take  inter- 
est in  their  trivial  talk*  find  varying  excitement  in  the  monotonous 
household  of  a  peasant-like  farmer.      I  could  not.  help  saying  as 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  301 

much  to  him  once.  "My  friend,"  replied  the  old  man  "believe 
hk\  that  the  happiest  art  of  intellect,  however  lofty,  is  that  which 
enables  it  to  be  cheerfully  at  home  with  the  Real !'" 

The  only  one  of  the  family  in  which  Faber  was  domesticated  in 
whom  I  found  an  interest,  to  whose  talk  I  could  listen  without 
fatigue,  was  t he  child  Amy.  Simple  though  she  was  in  language, 
patien'  of  labor  as  ihe  most  laborious,  I  recognized  in  her  a  quiet 
nobleness  of  sentiment  which  exalted  above  the  commonplace  the 
acts  of  her  commonplace  life.  She  had  no  precocious  intellect, 
no  enthusiastic  fancies,  but  she  had  an  exquisite  activity  of  heart. 
It  was  her  heart  that  animated  her  sense  of  duty,  and  made  duty 
a  sweetness  and  a  joy.  She  felt  to  the  core  the  kindness  of  those 
around  her;  exaggerated,  with  the  warmth  of  her  gratitude,  the 
claims  which  thai  kindness  imposed.  Even  for  the  blessing  of 
life,  which  she  shared  with  all  creation,  she  felt  as  if  singed  out 
by  the  undeserved  favor  of  the  Creator,  and  thus  was  tilled  with 
religion  because  she  was  filled  with  love. 

My  interest  in  this  child  was  increased  ,and  deepened  by  y 
saddened  and  not  wholly  unremorseftil  remembrance  of  the  night 
Oil  which  her  sobs  had  pierced  my  ear — the  niglii  from  which  I  se- 
cretly dated  the  mysterious  agencies  that  had  wrenched  from  their 
proper  field  and  career  both  my  mind  and  my  life.  Bur  a  gentler 
interest  endeared  her  to  my  thoughts  in  the  pleasure  that  Lilian 
felt  in  her  visits,  in  the  affectionate  intercourse  that  sprang  uu  be- 
tween the  afflicted  sufferer  and  the  harmless  infant..  Often,  wflen 
we  failed  to  comprehend  some  meaning  which  Lilian  evidently 
wished  to  convey  to  us — toe,  her  mother  and  her  husband — she 
was  understood  with  as  much  ease  by  Amy,  the  unlettered  child. 
as  by  Faber.  the  gray-haired  thinker. 

"  How  is  i: — How  is  it  ?"  1  asked  impatiently  and  jealousy,  of 
Faber  "  Love  is  said  to  interpret  where  wisdom  fails,  and  you 
yourself  talk  of  the  marvels  which  sympathy  may  effect  between 
lover  and  beloved  ;  yet  when,  for  days  together,  1  cannot  succeed 
in  unravelling  Lilian's  wish  or  her  thought — and  her  own  mother 
is  equally  in  fault — you  or  Amy,  closeted  aloi  e  with  her  for  five 
minutes,  comprehend  and  are  comprehend 

'•  .Mien,'*  answered  Faber,  "  Amy  and  I  believe  in  spirit,  and' 
she,  in  whom  mind  is  dormant  but  spirit  awake,  feels  in  that  belief 
a  sympathy  which  she  has  not,  in  that  respect,  with  yourself  nor 
e\en  with  her  mother.  You  seek  only  through  your  mind  to  con- 
jecture hers.     Her  mother  has  sense  clear  enough  where  habitual 

lieiice  can  guide  it,  but  that  sense   is  confused  and  fora 
her  when  forced  from  the  regular  pathway  in  which  it  has  heen 
domed  to  tread.     Amy  and  1  through  sou!  guess  at  soul,  and 
though  mostly  contented  with  earth,  we  can  both  rise  at  times  in- 
to heaven.     We  pray." 

•-.Mas!"  said  I,  half  mournfully,  half  angry,  "when  you 
thus  apeak  of  Mind  as  distinct  from  Soul,  it  was  only  in  that  Vision 


302  A    STRANGE   STOBY. 

which  you  bid  me  regard  as  the  illusion  of  a  fancy  stimulated  by 
chemical  vapors,  producing  on  the  brain  an  effect  similar  to  that 
of  opium,  or  the  inhalation  of  the  oxide  gas,  that  I  have  ever  seen 
the  silver  spark  of  the  Soul  distinct  from  the  light  of  the  Mind. 
And  holding,  as  I  do,  that  all  intellectual  ideas  are  derived  from 
the  experiences  of  the  body,  whether  I  accept  the  theory  of  Locke, 
or  that  of  Condillac,  or  that  into  which  their  propositions  reached 
their  final  development  in  the  wonderful  subtlety  of  Hume,  I  can- 
not, detect  the  immaterial  spirit  in  the,  material  substance,  much 
less  follow  its  escape  from  the  organic  matter  in  which  the  princi- 
ple of  thought  ceases  with  the  principle  of  life.  When  the 
metaphysician,  contending  for  the  immortality  of  the  thinking 
faculty,  analyzes  Mind,  his  analysis  comprehends  the  mind  of  the 
brute,  nay  of  the  insect,  as  well  as  that  of  man.  Take  Eeid's 
definition  of  Mind,  as  the  most  comprehensive  which  I  can  at  the 
moment  remember.  \  By  the  mind  of  a  man  we  understand  that 
in  him  which  thinks,  remembers,  reasons,  and  wills.'  But  this 
definition  only  distinguishes  the  Mind  of  man  from  that  of  the 
brute  by  superiority  in  the  same  attributes,  and  not  by  attributes 
denied  to  the  brute.  An  animal,  even  an  insect,  thinks,  remem- 
bers, reasons,  and  wills.*  Few  naturalists  will  now  support  the 
doctrine  that  all  the  mental  operations  of  brute  or  insect  are  to  be 
exclusively  referred  to  instincts  ;  and  even  if  they  do,  the  word 
instinct  is  a  very  vague  word — loose  and  large  enough  to  cover  an 
abyss  which  our  knowledge  has  not  sounded.  And,  indeed, in  pro- 
portion as  an  animal,  like  the  dog,  becomes  cultivated  by  inter- 
course, his  instincts  become  weaker,  and  his  ideas,  formed  by  ex- 
perience (namely,  his  mind),  more  developed,  often  to  the  conquest, 
of  the  instincts  themselves.  Hence,  with  his  usual  candor,  Dr. 
Abercrombie.'in  contending  '  that  every  thing  mental  ceases  to 
exist  after  death,  when  we  know  that  every  thing  corporeal  con- 
tinues to  exist,  is  a  gratuitous  assumption  contrary  to  every  rule  of 
philosophical  inquiry,' — feels  compelled,  by  his  reasoning,  to  admit 
the  probability  of  a  future  life  even  to  the  lower  animals.  His 
words   are  :      '  To  this  mode  of  reasoning  it  has  been  objected 


*  "  Are  intelligence  and  instinct,  thus  differing  in  their  relative  proportion 
in  man  as  compared  with  all  other  animals,  yet  the  same  in  kind  and  manner 
of  operation  in  both?  To  this  question  we  must  give  at  once  an  affirmative 
answer.  The  expression  of  (Juvier,  regarding  the  faculty  of  reasoning  in 
lower  animals.  'Leur  intelligence  execute  des  operations  du  meme  genre,'  is 
true  in  its  full  sense.  We  can- in  no  manner  define  reason  so  as  to  exclude 
acts  which  are  at  every  moment  present  to  our  observation,  and  which  we 
find  in  many  instances  to  contravene  the  natural  instincts  of  the  species.  The 
demeanor  and  acts  of  the  dog  in  reference  to  his  master,  or  the  various  uses  to 
which  he  is  put  by  man,  are  as  strictly  logical  as  those  we  witness  in  the 
ordinary  transactions  id'  life." — (Sir  Henry  Holland,  Chapters  on  Mental 
Physiology,  p.  220.)  The  whole  of  the  chapter  on  instincts  and  habits  in  this 
work  should  be  read  in  connection  with  the  passage  just  quoted.  The  Work 
itself,  at  once  cautious  and  suggestive,  is  not  one  of  the  least  obligations  \\  bich 
philosophy  and  religion  alike  owe  to  the  lueubratiou*  of  English  medical  men. 


A    STRANGB    STORY.  303 

I 

that  it  would  go' to  establish  an  immaterial  principle  in  the  lower 
animals,  which  in  them  exhibits  many  of  the  phenomena  of 
mind.  I  have  only  to  answer,  be  it  so.  There  are  in  the  lower 
animals  many  of  the  phenomena  of  mind,  and  with  regard  to  these 
we  also  contend  thai  they  are  entirely  distinct  from  any  thing'  we 
know  of  the  properties  of  matter,  which  is  all  that  we  mean,  or  can 
mean,  by  being  immaterial.'*  Am  I  then  driven  to  admit  that  if 
man's  mind  is  immaterial  and  imperishable,  so  also  is  that  of  the 
ape  and  the  ant  ?" 

"I  own,"  said  Faber,  with  his  peculiar  smile,  arch  and  genial, 
"that  if  I  were  compelled  to  make  that  admission,  it  would  not 
shock  my  pride.  I  do  not  presume  to  set  any  limit  to  the  good- 
ness of  the  Creator ;  and  should  be  as  humbly  pleased  as  the  In- 
dian, if  in 

' yonder  sky, 

My  faithful  dog  should  bear  aid  company.' 

You  are  too  familiar  with  the  works  of  that  Titan  in  wisdom  and 
error,  Descartes,  not  to  recollect  the  interesting  correspondence  ■ 
between  the  urbane  philosopher  and  our  combative  countryman, 
Henry  More,!  on  this  very  subject  ;  In  which  certainly  More  has 
the  best  of  it.when  Descartes  insists  on  reducing  what  he  calls  the 
soul  (Tame)  of  brutes  into  the  same  kind  of  machines  as  man  con- 
structs from  inorganized  matter.  The  learning,  indeed,  lavished 
on  the  insoluble  question  involved  in  the  psychology  Of  the  inferior 
animals,  is  a  proof  at  least  of  the  all-inquisitive,  redundanl  spirit  of 
man.J  We  have  almost  a  literature  in  itself  devoted  to  endeavors 
to  interpret  the  language  of  brutes.§  Dupont  de  Nemours  has  dis- 
covered'that  dogs  talk  in  vowels,  using  only  two  consonants,  a,  z, 
when  they  are  angry,  lie  asserts  that  cats  employ  the  same  vow- 
els as  dogs;  but  their  language  is  more  affluent  in  consonants,  in- 
cluding M,  i\,  B,  {t,  v,  v.  How  many  laborious  efforts  have  been 
made  to  define  and  construe  the  song  of  the  nightingale  !  (hie 
version  of  thai  song  by  Beckstein,  the  naturalist,  published  in  1840, 
1  remember  to  have  seen.  And  I  heard  a  lady,  gifted  with  a 
singularly  charming  voice,  chaunl  the  mysterious  vowels  with  so 
isite  a  pathos,  that  one  could  not  refuse  to  believe  her  when 
she  declared  that  she  fully  comprehended  the  birds  meaning,  and 


lercrombie's  Intellectual  Powers,  p.  26.    Fifteenth  Edition. 

i  CEuvres  de  Descartes,  vol.  x.  p.  178,  et  Beq.  (Cousin's  edition.) 

t  VI.  Tissoi,  the  distinguished  Professor  of  Philosophy  at  Dyon,  in  his  re- 
work, La  Vie  dans  rilonnne, p.  255,  gives  a  long  and  illustrious  list  of 
philosophers  who  assign  a  rational  soul  (fame)  to  tin'  inferior  animals,  though 
he  truly  adds,  "thai  they  have  noi  always  the  courage  of  their  opinion." 

fl  Some  idea  of  the  extent  of  research  and  imagination  bestowed  on  thi* 
subject  may  be  gleaned  from  the  sprightly  work  of  Pierquin  du  Uembloux, 
Iduiimdoj}!*  d«t  Aniumux,  published  at  Paris,  lbi-U. 


304  A    STRANGK   STORY.  \ 

gave  to  the  nightingale's  warble  the  tender  interpretation  of  her 
own  woman's  heart. 

"  But  leaving  all  such  discussions  to  their  proper  place  amongst 
the  Curiosities  of  literature,  1  come  in  earnest  to  the  question  you 
have  so  earnestly  raised,  and  to  me  the  distinction  between  man 
and  the  lower  animals  in  reference  to  a  spiritual  nature  designed 
for  a  future  existence,  and  'the  mental  operations  whose  uses  are 
hounded  to  an  existence  on  earth,  seems  ineffaceably  clear.  Whether 
ideas  or  even  perceptions  be  innate  or  all  formed  by  experience  is 
a  speculation  for  metaphysicians,  which,  so  far  as  effects  the  ques- 
tion of  an  immaterial  principle,  I  am  quite  willing  to  lay  aside.  I 
can  well  understand  that  a  materialist  may  admit  innate  ideas  in 
Man,  as  he  must,  admit  them  in  the  instinct  of  brutes,  tracing  them 
to  hereditary  predispositions.  On  the  other  hand,  we.  know  that 
the  most  devout  believers  in  our  spiritual  nature  have  insisted, 
with  Locke,  in  denying  any  idea,  even  of  the  Deity,  to  be  innate. 

"  But  here  comes  my  argument.  I  care  not  how  ideas  are  form- 
ed, the  material  point  is,  how  are  the  capacities  to  receive  ideas 
formed.  The  ideas  may  all  come  from  experience,  but  the  capacity 
to  receive  the  ideas  must  be  inherent.  I  take  the  word  capacity 
as  a  good  plain  English  word,  rather  than  the  more  technical  word 
'  receptivity,'  employed  by  Kant.  And  by  capacity  I  mean  the 
passive  power*  to  receive  ideas,  whether  in  man  or  in  any  living 
thing  by  which  ideas  are  received.  A  man  and  an  elephant  is 
each  formed  with  capacities. to  receive  ideas  suited  to  the  several 
places  in  the  universe  held  by  each. 

"  The  more  1  look  through  nature  the  more  I  find  that  on  all 
varieties  of  organized  life  is  carefully  bestowed  the  capacity  to  re- 
ceive the  impressions,  bej  they  called  perceptions  or  ideas,  which 
arc  adapted  to  the  uses  each  creature  is  intended  to  derive  from 
them,  I  find,  then,  that  Man  alone  is  endowed  with  the  capacity 
to  receive  the  ideas  of  a  God,  of  Soul,  of  Worship,  of  a  Hereafter. 
I  see  no  trace  of  such  a  capacity  in  the  inferior  races;  nor,  how- 
ever their  intelligence  may  be  refined  by  culture,  is  such  capacity 
ever  apparent  in  them. 

-  But  wherever  capacities  to  receive  impressions  arc  sufficiently 
general  in  any  given  species  of  creature,  to  be  called  universal  to 
that  species,  and  yet  not  given  to  another  species,  then,  from  ail 
analogy  throughout  Nature,  those  capacities  are  surely  designed 
by  Providence  for  the  distinct  use  and  conservation  of  the  species 
to  which  they  are  given. 

"  It  is  no  answer  to  me  to  say  that  the  inherent  capacities  thus 
bestowed  on  Man  do  not  suffice  in  themselves  to  make  him  form 
right  notions  of  a  Deity  or  a  Hereafter ;  because  it  is  plainly  the 
design  of  Providence  that  Man  must  learn  to  correct  and  improve 
all  his  notions  by  his  own  study  and  observation.     He  must  build 

*"  Faculty  is  active  power;  capacity  is  passive  power." — Sir  W.  Hamil- 
ton, Lectures  on  Metaphysics  and  Logic,  vol.  i.,  p.  17d. 


A    HTKANWB    STuKY.  S0£ 

a  hut  before  he  can  build  a  Parthenon  ;  he  must  believe  with  th<a 
savage  or  the  heathen  before  he  can  believe  with  the  philosopher 
or  Christian.     In  a  won],  in  all  his  capacities,  Man  has  only  given 
to  him,  not  the  immediate  knowledge  of  the  Perfect,  but  the  tn 
to  strive  toward  the  Perfect.     And  thus  one  of  the  most  ai 
plished  of  modern  reasotfers,   to  whose    lectures   you  must  have 
listened   with   delight  in  your  college   days,  says   well  :  '  AjCC< 
ingly,  the  sciences  always  studied  with  keenest  interest,  are  those  in 
a  state  of  progress  and  uncertainty  ;  absolute  certainty  and  absolute 
completion  would  be  the  paralysis  of  any  study,  and  ,.orst 

calamity  that  could  befall  Man,  as  he  is  at  present  constituted, 
would  lie  that. full  and  final  possession  of  speculative  truth  which 
he  now  vainly  anticipates  as  the  consummation  of  his  intellectual 
happiness* 

"Well,  then,  in  all  those  capacities  for  the  reception  of  impres- 
sions from  external  Nature,  which  are  given  to  Man  and  not  to  thia 
brutes,  I  see  the  evidence  of  Man's  Soul.  1  can  understand  why 
lienor  animal  has  no  capacity  to  receive  the  idea  of  a  Deity 
and  of  Worship — simply  because  the  inferior  animal,  even  if  gra- 
ciously admitted  to  a  future  life,  may  not  therein  preserv 
of  its  identity!  1  can  understand  even  why  that  sympathy  with 
each  ,'h  we  men  possess,  and  which   constitutes  the  g] 

virtue  we  emphatically  pall  Humanity,  is  not  possessed  by  the 
ser  animals  (or,  at  least,  in  a  very  rare   and  exceptional   degree), 
even  where  they  live  in  communities,  like  beavers,  or  b  ants; 

because  .men  are  destined  to  meet,  to  knew,  and  to  love  each  other 
in  the  life  to  come,  and  the  bond  between  the  brutes  ceases  here. 

Now,  the  more,  then,  we  examine  the  inherent  capa 
stowed  distinctly  and  "solely  on  Man,  the  more  they  seem  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  the  other  i  teir  comprehension  of  obj 

id  his  life  upon  this  earth.  'Man  alone,'  says  Miillei%  '  can 
n  lions:'"  and  it  is  in  abstract  notions — such  as 
e,  matter,  .spirit,  light,  formi quantity,  essence— that  Man 
grounds  not  only  all  philosophy,  all  science,  but  all  that  practical- 
ly improves  one  generation  for  the  benefit  of  the  next.  And  Why  I 
Because  all  these  abstract  notions  unconsciously  lead  the  mind 
away  from  the  material  into  the  immaterial ;  from  the  present  into 
the  future."  Bui  if  Man  ceases  to  exist  when  he  disappears  in  the 
grave,  you  must  be  compelled  to  affirm  that  he  is  the  only  creature 
in  exi  Nature  or  Providence  has  condescended  to  de- 

and  cheat    by   capacities  for  which  there  are  no  available 
objects.     How  nobly   and  how  truly  lias  Chalmers  said:  'What 
inference  shall  we  draw  from  this  remarkable  law  in  Ne 
there  is  nothing  waste  and  nothing  meaningless  in  the  feelings  and 
faculties  wherewith  living  creatures  are  endowed  !     For  each  d< 
there  is  a  counterpart   objects  for  each  faculty  there  is  room  and 

*  Sir  W.  Hamilton's  Lectures,  ▼•!.  i.,  p.  18. 
2t 


306  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

opportunity  for  exercise  either  in  the  present  or  in  the  coming 
futurity.  Now,  but  for  the  doctrine  of  immortality,  Man  would  be 
an  exception  to  this  law — he  would  stand  forth  as  an  anomally  in 
Nature,  with  aspirations  in  his  heart  for  which  the  universe  had  no 
antitype  to  offer,  with  capacities  of  understanding  and  thought  that 
never  were  to  be  followed  by  objects  of  corresponding  greatness 
through  the  whole  history  of  his  being  ! 

.  "  '  With  the  inferior  animals  there  is  a  certain  squareness  of  ad- 
justment, if  we  may  so  term  it,  between  each  desire  and  its  cor- 
respondent gratification.  The  one  is  evenly  met  by  the  other,  and 
there  is  a  fulness  and  definiteness  of  enjoyment  up  to  the  capacity 
of  enjoyment.  Not  so  with  Man,  who,  both  from  the  vastness  of 
his  propensities  and  the  vastness  of  his  powers,  feels  himself  chain- 
ed and  beset  in  a  field  too  narrow  for  him.  He  alone  labors  under 
the  discomfort  of  an  incongruity  between  his  circumstances  and  his 
powers,  and  unless  there  be  new  circumstances  awaiting  him  in  a 
more  advanced  state  of  being,  he,  the  noblest  of  Nature's  products 
here,  would  turn  out  to  be  the  greatest  of  her  failures.'* 

"  This,  then,  I  take  to'be  the  proof  of  the  Soul  in  Man,  not  that 
he  has  a  mind — because,  as  you  justly  say,  inferior  animals  have 
that,  though  in  a  lesser  degree — but  because  he  has  the  capacities 
to  comprehend,  as  soon  as  he  is  capable  of  any  abstract  ideas 
whatsoever,  the  very  truths  not  needed  for  self-conservation  on 
earth,  and  therefore  not  given  to  yonder  ox  and  oppossum,  namely, 
the  nature  of  Deity — Soul — Hereafter.  And  in  the  recognition  of 
these  truths  the  Human  society  that  excels  the  society  of  beavers, 
bees,  and  ants  by  perpetual  and  progressive  improvement  on  the 
notions  inherited  from  its  progenitors,  rests  its  basis.  Thus,  in 
fact,  this  world  is  benefitted  for  men  by  their  belief  in  the  next, 
while  the  society  of  brutes  remains  age  after  age  the  same.  Neither 
the  bee  nor  the  heaver  has,  in  all  probability,  improved  since  the 
Deluge. 

"  But  inseparable  from  the  convictions  of  these  truths  is  the  im- 
pulse of  prayer  and  worship.  It  does  not  touch  my  argument 
when  a  philosopher  of  the  school  of  Bolingbroke  or  Lucretius  says, 
4  that  the  origin  of  prayer  is  in  Man's  ignorance  of  the  phenomena 
of  Nature.'  That  it  is  fear  or  ignorance  which  '  when  rocked  the 
mountains,  or  when  groaned  the  ground,  taught  the  weak  to  bend, 
the  proud  to  pray,'  my  answer  is — the  brutes  are  much  more 
forcibly  impressed  by  natural  phenomena  than  Man  is ;  the  bird 
and  the  beast  know  before  you  and  I  do  when  the  mountain  will  rock 
and  the  ground  groan,  and  their  instinct  leads  them  to  shelter  ;  but 

*  Chalmers,  Bridge-water  Treatise,  vol.  ii.,  pp.  28,  30.  Perhaps  I  should 
observe  that  here  and  elsewhere,  in  the  dialogues  between  Faber  and  Fen- 
wick,  it  has  been  generally  thought  better  to  substitute  the  words  of  the 
author  quoted  for  ther  mere  outline  or  purport  of  the  quotation  which  memory 
afforded  to  the  interlocutor. 


A    STUAXUE    STORY.  307 

it  does  not  lead  them  to  prayer.  If  my  theory  he  right  that  Soul 
is  In  be  sought  nut.  in  the  question  whether  mental  ideas  be  innate 
or  formed  by  experience,  by  the  senses,  by  association  or  habit,  hut 
mi  the  Inherent  capacity  te  receive  ideas — the  rapacity  bestowed 
on  Man  alone,  to  be  impressed  by  Nature  herself  with  the  idea  of 
a  rower  superior  to  Nature, -With  which  Power  he  oan  establish 
conuimne,  is  a  ]>rooi'  that  to  Man  alone  the  Maker  has  made  Na- 
ture Itself  proclaim  His  existence — that  to  Man  alone  the  Deity 
vouchsafes  the  communion  with  Himself  which  comes  from 
prayer." 

"  Even  were  this  so."  said  I,  "  is  no$  the  Creator  omniscient  1  if 
all-wise,  all-fOre-seeing  !  if  all-fore-seeing,  pre-ordaining.'  Can  (ho 
prayer  of  His  creature  alter  the  ways  of  His  will  1  " 

"For  an  answer  to  that  question,"  returned  Faber,  "  which  is 
so  often  asked  by  theclever  men  of  the  world,  I  ought  to  referyou 
to  the  skilled  theologian^  who  have  so  triumphantly  oarried  th.' 
reasoner  over  that  ford  of  dduhl  which  is  crossed  every  day  hy 
the  infant.  But  as  we  have  not  their  books  in  the  wilderness.  Iain 
ited  to  draw  my  reply  as  a  necessary  and  logical  sequence 
from  the  propositions  1  have  sought  to  ground  in.  the  plain  obser- 
vation of  Nature.  I  can  only  guess  at  the  Deity's  ( huuiscietice, 
or  His  modes  of  enforcing  His  power,  by  the  observation  of  His 
general  laws,  1  know  of  none  so  general  as  the  impul.-o  which  bids 
men  pray — which  makes  Nature  so  act  that  all  the  phenome 
Nature  we  can  conceived  however  si  art  ling  and  ^experienced,  do 
nor  make  the  brute  pray  ;  but  there  is  not  a  trouble  that  can  hap- 
pen to  Man  but  what  his  impulse  is  to  pray — always  provided,  in- 
deed, thai  he  is  not  a  philosopher.  I  say  not  this  in  scorn  of  the 
philosi  ,  i  o  whose  wildest  guess  our  obligations  arc  iniinite, 
bui  simp'  ■  for  all  which  is  impulsive  to  Man,  there  is  a 

reason  in  Nature  which  no  philosophy  oan  explain  away,  1  do 
not.  then,  bewilder  myself  by  seeking  "to  bind  and  limit  the  Omnis- 
cience ol*  the  Deity  to  my  finite  ideas.  1  content  myself  with  be- 
lieving that,  somehow  or  other,  He  has  made  it  quite  compatible 
with  liis  Omniscience  that  Man  should  obey  the  impulse  that  leads 
him  to  believe  that  in  addressing  a  Deity  he  is  addressing  a  tender, 
pomp assion ate,  benignant  .Father,  and  in  that  obedience  shall  obtain 
ieial  results,  if  thai  impulse  be  an  illusion,  then  we  must- say 
Heaven  governs  the  earth  by  a  lie:  and  thai  ii  is  im 
possible,  because,  reasoning  by  analogy,  all  Nature  is  truth- 
ful— that  is,  Nature  gives  to  no  species  instincts  of  im- 
pulses which  are  not  of  service  to  it.  Should  1  not  be  a 
shallow  physician  if,  where  I  find  in  the  human  organization 
a  principle  or  a  property  so  general  that  1  must  believe  it  normal 
Ithful  conditions  of  thai  organization,  1  should  refuse  to 
admit  thai  Nature  intended  it  for  use  \  Reasoning  by  all  anal 
must  1  Hot  say  the  habitual  neglect  of  its  use  ""iM  i  lore  or  less 
injure  the  harmonious  well-being  of  the  whole  human  system  I     1 


308  A    STKANGB    STORY. 

could  have  much  to  add  upon  the  point  in  dispute,  by  which  the 
creed  implied  in  your  question  would  inthral  the  Divine  mercy  by 
the  necessities  of  its  divine  wi  nd  substitute  for  a  benignant 

Deity  a  relentless  Fate.  But  here  I  should  exceed  my  province. 
I  am  no  theologian.  Enough  for  me  that  in  all  affliction,  all  per- 
plexity, an  impulse  that  I  obey  as  an  instinct  moves  me  at  once  .to 
prayer.  Do  I  find  by  experience  that  the  prayer  is  heard,  that  the 
affliction  is  removed,  the  doubt  is  solved  ?  That,  indeed,  would  be 
presumptuous  to  say.  But  it  is  not  presumptuous  to  think  that  by 
the  efficacy  of  prayer  my  heart  becomes  more  fortified  against  the 
sorrow,  and  my  reason  more  serene  amidst  the  doubt." 

I  listened,  and  ceased  to  argue.  I  felt  as  if  in  that  solitude, 
and  in  the  pause  of  my  wonted  mental  occupations,  my  intellect 
was  growing  languid,  and  its  old  weapons  rusting  in  disuse.  My 
pride  took  alarm.  I  had  so  from  my  boyhood  cherished  the  idea 
of  fame,  and  so  glorified  the  search  after  knowledge,  that  I  re- 
coiled in  dismay  from  the  thought  that  I  had  relinquished  knowl- 
edge, and  out  myself  off  from  fame.  I  resolved  to  resume  my 
once  favorite  philosophical  pursuits,  reexamine  and  complete  the 
Work  to  which  I  had  once  committed  my  hopes  of  renown  ;  and, 
simultaneously,  a  restless  desire  seix:  d  me  to  communicate,  though 
but  at  brief  intervals,  with  other  minds  than  those  immediately 
within  my  reach — minds  fresh  front  the  old  world,  and  reviving 
■  Memories  of  its  vivid  civilization.  Emigrants  frequently 
passed  oes,  but  I  had  hitherto  shrunk  from  tendering  the 

hospitalities  so  universally  a-  hi  the  colony.     I  could  not 

endure  to  expose  to  such,  t  angers  my  Lilian's  mournful 

■'ton,  and  that  thought  was  no.1  less  intolerable  to  Mrs.  Ash- 
leigli.  J  now  hastily  constructed  a  log  building  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  house,  and  near  the  main  track  taken  by  travelers 
throng!:  the  spacious  pastures;  i  iransported  to  this  building  my 
books  and  scientific  instruments.  In  an  upper  story  I  placed  my 
telescopes  and  lenses,  my  crucibles  and  retorts.  I  renewed  my 
chemical  experiments — I  sought  to  invigorate  my  mind  by  other 
branches  of  science  which  I  had  hitherto  less  cultured — meditated 
new  theories  on  Light  and  Color — collected  specimens  in  Natural 
History — subjected  animalcules  to  my  microscope — geological 
fossils  to  my  hammer.  With  all  these  quickened  occupations  of 
thought,  I  strove  to  distract  myself  from  sorrow,  and  strengthen 
my  reason  against  the  illusions  of  my  fantasy.  The  Luminous 
Shadow  was  not  seen  again  on  my  wall,  and  the  thought  of  Mar- 
grave himself  was  banished. 

In  this  building  I  passed  many  hours  of  each  day,  more  and 
more  earnestly  plunging  my  thoughts  into  the  depths  of  abstract 
study,  as  Lilian's  unaccountable  dislike  to  my  presence  became 
more  and  more  decided.  When  I  thus  ceased  to  think  that  my 
life  cheered  and  comforted  hers,  my  heart's  occupation  was  gone. 
I  lusd  a*na«sed  Ira  &e  apa*tnaeiat  reserved  for  m$ eelf  i«  ikix  leg-- 


A    STUA\«B    STORY.  309 

hut  a  couple  of  spare  rooms,  in  which  I  could  accommodate  pass- 
ing strangers,  I  learned  to  look  forward  to  their  coming  with  in- 
terest, and  to  see  them  depart  with  regret ;  yet,  for  the  most  part, 
they  were  of  the  ordinary  class  of  colonial  adventurers  :  bank- 
rupt tradesmen,  unlucky  farmers,  forlorn  mechanics,  hordes  of  un- 
skilled laborers,  now  and  then  a  briefless  barrister,  or  a  sporting 
collegian  who  had  lost  his  all  on  the  Derby.  One  day,  however,  a 
young  man  of  education  and  manners  that  unmistakably  pro- 
claimed the  cultured  gentleman  of  Europe,  stopped  at  my  door. — 
lie  was  a  cadet,  of  a  noble  Prussian  family,  Which,  for  some. polit- 
ical reasons  had  settled  itself  in  Paris;  there  be  had  become  in- 
timate with  young  French  nobles,  and,  living  the  life  of  a  young 
French  noble,  had  soon  scandalized  his  German  parents,  fore- 
stalled his  slender  inheritance,  and  been  compelled  to  lly  his  fa- 
ther's frown  and  his,  tailors'  bills.  All  this' he  told  me  with  a 
lively  frankness  which  proved  how  much  the  wit  of  a  German 
can  be  quickened  in  the  atmosphere  of  Paris.  An  old  college 
friend,  of  birth  inferior  to  his  own,  had  been  as  unfortunate  in 
seeking  to  make  money  as  this  young  prodigal  had  been  an  adept 
in  spending  it.  The  friend,  a  few  years  previously,  had  accom- 
panied other  Germans  in  a  migration  to  Australia,  and  was  already 
tliriving;  the  spendthrift  noble  was  on  his  way  to  join  the  bank- 
rupt trader,  at  a  German  settlement  fifty  miles  distant  from  my 
house.  This  young  man  was  unlike  any  German  I  ever  met. — 
He  had  all  the  exquisite  levity  by  which  the  well-bred  French- 
man gives  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Cynic  the  grace  of  the  Epicu- 
rean, lie  owned  himself  to  be  good  for  nothing  with  an  elegar.ee 
of  candor  which  not  only  disarmed  censure,  but  seemed  to  chal- 
lenge admiration  :  and,  withal,  the  happy  spendthrift  was  so  ine- 
briate with  hope — sure  that  he  should  be  rich  before  he"  was  thirty. 
How  and  wherefore  rich  ? — he  could  have  no  more  explained  than 
I  can  square  the  circle.  When  the  grand  serious  German  nature 
does  Frenchify  itself,  it  can  become  so  extravagantly  French! 

I  listened,  almost  enviously,  to  this  light-hearted  profligate's 
babble  as  we  sat,  by  my  rude  fireside — I,  sombre  man  of  science 
and  sorrow,  he,  smiling  child  ofidlesse  and  pleasure,  so  much  one 
of  Nature's  courtier-like  nobles,  that  there,  as  he  smoked  his  vil- 
lainous pipe,  in  his  dust-soiled  shabby  garments,  and  with  his  ruf- 
fianly revolver  stuck  into  bis  belt,  I  would  defy  the  daintiest 
Aristarctl  who  ever  presided  as  critic  over  the  holiday  world  not 
to  have  said,  "There  sits  the  genius  beyond  my  laws,  the  born 
darling  of  the  Graces,  who,  in  every  circumstance  in  every  age, 
like  Aristippus,  would  have  Socially  charmed — would  have  been 
come  to  the  orgies  of  a  Cu'sar  or  a  Claudius,  to  the  boudoirs  of 
a  Montespan  or  a  Pampadonr — have  lounged  through  the  AI ul- 
bery  Gardens  with  a  Rochester  and  a  Buckingham,  or  smiled 
from  the  death-cart  with  a  Richelieu  and  a  Lauzum — a  gentle- 
ujairs  disdain  of  a  mob  !" 


JifO  A    STRANGE    SFORY. 

I  was  so  thinking  as  we  sat,  his  light  talk  frothing  up  from  his 
careless  lips,  when  suddenly  from  the  spray  and  the  sparkle  of 
that  light  talk  was  flung  forth  the  name  of  Margrave. 

"  Margrave  !"  I  exclaimed.     "  Pardon  me.     What  of  him  V 

"  What  of  him  !  I  asked  if,  by  chance,  you  knew  the  only 
Englishman  I  ever  had  the  meanness  to  envy  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  speak  of  one  person,  and  I  thought  of  another/' 

"  Pardieu,  my  dear  host,  there  can  scarcely  be  two  Margraves  ! 
The  one  I  mean  flashed  like  a  meteor  upon  Paris,  bought  from  a 
prince  of  the  Bourse  a  palace  that  might  have  lodged  a  prince  of 
the  blood  royal,  eclipsed  our  Jew  bankers  in  splendor,  our  jeunesse 
doree  in  good  looks  and  hair-brain  adventures,  and,  strangest  of 
all,  filled  his  salons  with  philosophers  and  charlatans,  chemists 
and  spirit-rappers;  insulting  the  gravest  dons  of  the  schools  by» 
bringing  them  face  to  face  with  the  most  impudent  quacks,  the 
most  ridiculous  dreamers — and  yet,  withal,  himself  so  racj\  and 
charming,  so  bon  prince,  so  bon  enfant !  For  six  months  he  was 
the  rage  at  Paris;  perhaps  he  might  have  continued  to  be  the 
rage  for  -six  years,  but  all  at  once  the  meteor  vanished  as  sud- 
denly as  H  had  flashed.      Is  this  the  Margrave  whom  you  know  ?" 

"  I  <->!  ould  not  have  thought  the  Margrave  whom  I  knew  could 
have  reconciled  his  tastes  to  the  life  of  cities." 

"  Nor  eould  this  man  :  cities  were  too  tame  for  him.  He  has 
gone  to  some  far-remote  wilds  in  the  East — some  say  in  search  of 
the  philosopher's  stone — for  he  actually  maintained  in  his  house  a 
Sicilian  adventurer,  who,  when  at  work  on  that  famous  discovery, 
was  stifled  by  the  fumes  of  his  own  crucible.  After  that  misfor- 
tune Margrave  took  Paris  in  disgust,  and  we  lost  him." 

"  So  this  is  the  only  gentleman  whom  you  envy  !  Envy  him  ! 
Why  V 

"  Beeau.se  he  is  the  only  Englishman  I  ever  met  who  contrived 
to  be  rich  and  vet  free  from  the  spleen  ;  I  envied  him  because 
one  had  only  to  look  at  his  face,  and  see  how  thoroughly  he  en- 
joyed the  life  of  which  your  countrymen  seem  to  be  so  heartily 
tired  !  But  now  that  I  have  satisfied  your  curiosity,  pray,  satisfy 
mine.     Who  and  what  is  this  Englisman  1" 

"Who  and  what  was  he  supposed  to  be  in  Paris  ?" 
.  "  Conjectuies  were  numberless.  One  of  your  countrymen  sug- 
gested that  which  was  most  generally  believed.  This  gentleman, 
whose  ftame  I  forget,  but  who  was  one  of  those  old  roues  who 
fancy  themselves  young  because  they  live  with  the  young,  no 
sooner  set  eyes  upon  Margrave  than  he  exclaimed,  '  Louis  Grayle 
come  to  life  again,  as  I  saw  him  forty-four  years  ago !  But  no — 
still  younger,  still  handsomer — it  must  be  his  son  ! '  " 

"  Louis  Grayle,  who  was  said  to  be  murdered  at  Aleppo  1" 

"  The  same.  That  strange  old  man  wa>s  enormously  rich,  but 
it  seems  that  he  hated  his  lawful  heirs,  and  left  behind  him  a  for- 
tune so  far  below  that  which  he  was  known  to  possess,  thai   he 


A    STKANGE    STORV.  311 

must  certainly  have  disposed  of  it  secretly  before  his  death. — 
Why  so  dispose  of  it,  if  not  to  enrich  some  natural  son,  whom,  for 
private  reasons,  he  might  Dot  have  wished  to  acknowledge  or 
point  out  to  the  world,  by  the  signal  bequest  of  his  will  ?  All 
that  Margrave  ever  said  of  himself  and  uho  source  of"  his  wealth 
confirmed  his  belief.  He  frankly  proclaimed  himself  a  natural 
son,  enriched  by  a  father  whose  name  he  knew  not  nor  cared  to 
know." 

"  It  is  true.  And  Margrave  quitted  Paris  for  the  East  1 — 
When  V 

"I  can  tell  you  the  date  within  a  day  or  two,  for  his  flight  pre- 
ceded mine  by  a  week  ;  and,  happily,  all  Paris  was  so  busy  in 
talking  of  it  that  I  slipped  away  without  notice." 

A»d  the  Prussian  then  named  a  date  which  it  thrilled  me  to 
hear,  for  it  was  in  that  very  month,  and  about  that  very  day,  that 
the  Luminous  Shadow  had  stood  within  my  threshold. 

The  young  Count  now  struck  off  into  other  subjects  of  talk  ; 
nothing  more  was  said  of  Margrave.  An  hour  or  two  afterward 
he  went  on  his  way,  and  I  remained  long-gazing  musingly  on  the 
embers jef  the  fire  dying  low  on  my  hearth. 


DHAPTER  LXXIV. 


Mv  Work,  my  i'hilosophical  Work — the  ambitious  hope  of  my 
intellectual  life-^how  eagerly  1  returned  to  it  again  !  Far  away 
from  my  household  grief,  far  away  from  my  haggard  perplexities. 
Neither  a  Lilian  nor  a  Margrave  there! 

As«[  went  over  what  I  had  before  written,  each  link  in  its  chain 
of  reasoning  seemed  so  serried,  that  to  alter  one  were  to  derange 
all  :  and  the  whole  reasoning  was  so  opposed  to  the  possibility  of 
the  wonders  1  myself  had  experienced,  so  hostile  to  the  subtle 
hypotheses,  of  a  Faber  or  the  childlike  belief  of  an  Amy,  that  I 
must  have  destroyed  the  entire  work  if  I  had  admitted  such  con- 
tradictions to  its  design  ! 

Put  the  work  was  I  myself!  I,  in  my  solid,  sober,  healthful 
mind,  before  the  brain  had  been  perplexed  by  a  phantom.  Were 
phantoms  to  be  allowed  as  testimonies  against  science?  No  ;  in 
returning  to  my  Book  I  returned  to  my  former  Me  ! 

How  strange  is  that  contradiction  between  our  being  as  a  man 
and  our  being  as  an  author  !  Take  any  writer  enamoured  of  a 
system — a  thousand  tilings  may  happen  to  him  every  day  which 
i  shake  his  faith  in  thai  system  ;  and  while  he  moves  about  as 
a  mere  man,  his  faith  is  shaken.  Bui  when  he  settles  himself 
hack  into  the  phase  of  his  being  as  author,  the  mere  act  of  taking 


S12 

A    STRANGE    STORY. 

pen  in  hand  and  smoothing  the  paper  before  him  restores  his  spec- 
ulations to  their  ancient  mechanical  train.  The  system,  the  be- 
loved system,  reasserts  its  tyrannic  sway,  and  he  either  ignores, 
or  moulds  into  fresh  proofs  of  his  theory  as  author,  all  which,  an 
hour  before,  had  given  his  theory  the  lie  in  his  living  perceptions 
as  man. 

I  adhered  to  my  system  :  I  continued  my  work.  Here,  in  the 
barbarous  desert,  was  a  link  between  me  and  the  cities  of  Europe. 
All  else  might  break  down  under  me.  The  love  I  had.dreamed  of 
was  blotted  out  from  the  world  and  might  never  be  restored  ;  my 
hearth  might  be  lonely,  my  life  be  an  exiles.  My  reason  might, 
at  last,  give  way  before  the  spectres  which  awed  my  senses  or  the 
sorrows  which  stormed  my  heart.  But  here,  at  least,  was  a  monu- 
ment of  my  rational,  thoughtful  Me — of  my  individualized  identi- 
ty in  multiform  creation.  And  my  mind,  in  the  noon  of  its  force* 
would  shed  its  light  on  the  earth  when  my  form  was  resolved  to 
its  elements.  Alas!  in  this  very  yearning  for  the  Hereafter* 
igfe  but  the  Hereafter  of  a  Name,  could  I  see  only  the  craving 
of  Mind,  and  bear  not  the  whisper  of  Soul? 

The  avocations  of  a  colonist,  usually  active,  had  little  interest 
for  me.  The  vast  territorial  lordship,  in  which,  could  I  have  en- 
deared its  possession  by  the  hopes  thai  animate  a  Founder*!  should 
felt  all  the  zest  and  the  pride  of  ownership,  was  but  the  run 
of  a  common  to  the  passing  emigrant,  who  would  leave  no  sons  to 
inherit  the  tardy  products  of  his  labor.  Ifwas  not  goaded  to  in- 
dustry by  the  stimulus  of  need.  I  could  only  be  ruined  if  I  risked 
all  my  capital  in  the  attempt  to  improve.  I  lived,  therefore, 
among  my  fertile  pastures',  as  careless  of  culture  as  the  English 
occupant  of  the  Highland  moor,  which  he  rents  for  the  range  of  its 
solitudes. 

I  knew,  indeed,  that,  if  ever  1  became  avaricious,  I  might  swell 
my  modest  affluence  into  absolute  wealth.  T  had  revisited  tie  spot 
in  which  I  had  discovered  the  nugget  of  gold,  and  had  found  the 
precious  metal  in  rich  abundance  jmft  under  the  first  coverings  of 
the  alluvial  soil.  1  concealed  my  discovery  from  all.  I  knew  that 
did  I  proclaim  it,  the  charm  of  my  Bush-life  would  be/gone.  My 
fields  would  be  infested  by  all  the  wild  adventurers  who  gather  to 
gold  as  the  vultures  of  prey  round  a  carcass;  my  servants  would 
desert  me,  my  very  flocks  would  be  shepherdless  ! 

Months  again  rolled  on  months.  I  had  just  approached  the  close 
of  my  beloved  Work  when  it  was  again  suspended,  and  by  an 
anguish  keener  than  all  which  I  had  previously  known. 

Lilian  became  alarmingly  ill.  Her  state  of  health,  long  gradual- 
ly declining,  had  hitherto  admitted  checkered  intervals  of  improve- 
ment, and  exhibited  no  symptoms  of  actual  danger.  But  now  she 
was  seized  with  a  kind  of  chronic  fever,  attended  with  absolute 
privation  of  sleep,  an  aversion  to  even  the  lightest  nourishment, 
and  an  acute  aervous  susceptibility  to  all  the  outward  impressions, 


A    STRANGE     8T0RY.  313 

of  which  she  had  long:  seemed  so  unconscious;  morbidly  alive  to 
the  faintest  sound,  shrinking  from  the  light  as  from  a  torture. 
Her  previous  impatience  at  my  entrance  into  her  room  became 
aggravated  into  tenement  emotions,  convulsive  paroxysms  of  dis- 
tress. So  that.  Faber  banished  me  from  her  chamber,  and.  with  a 
heart  bleeding  at  every  fibre,  1  submitted  to  the  cruel  aentetii 

ber  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  my  house  amd  brought.  Amy 
with  him  ;  one  or  the  other  never  left  Lilian,  night  or  day. 
great  physician  spoke  doubtfully  of  the  case,  but  not  despairingly. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that,  in  spire  of  the  want  of  sleep,  the 
abstinence  of  food,  the  form  has  not  wasted  as  it  would  do  were 
this  fever  inevitably  mortal.  It  is  upon  that  phenomenon  1  build 
a  hope  that  I  have  not  been  mistaken  in  the  opinion  1  hazarded 
from  the  first.  We  are  now  in  the  midst  of  the  critical  struggle 
between  life  and  reason  ;  if  she  preserve  the  one,  my  conviction  is 
that  she  will  regain  the  other.  That  seeming  antipathy  to  your- 
self is  a  good  omen.  You  are  inseparably  associated  with  her  in- 
tellectual world;  in  proportion  as  she  revives  to  it,  most,  become 
vivid  and  powerful  the  reminiscences  of  the  shock  that  annulled  for 
a    time    that   world    to   her.      So    1   we  come,  ral    i  i  fear,  the 

owr-susceptibi!ity  of  the  awakening  senses  to  external  sights  and 
sounds.  A  few  days  will  decide  if  I  am  right  la  this  climate 
the  progress  of  acute  maladies  is  swift, but  the  recovery  from  them 
is  \  et  more  start  lingly  rapid.  Wait — endure — be  prepared  to  sub- 
mit to  the  will  of  Heaven:   hut  do  not  despond  of  its  mercy." 

I  rushed  away  from  the  consider — away  into  the  t hie',  of  the 
forests,  the  heart  of  the  solitude.  All  around  me.  there,  was  joy- 
ousv  rlie  locusts  sang  amidst  the  herbage  :  the  cranes 
gambolled  oh  the  hanks  of  the  creek"  ;  the  suuirrel-'ike  opossums 
frolicked  on  tin  boughs.  "  And  what,"  said  1  bo  myself — 
\"  what  if  .that  which  seems  so  fabulous  in  the  distant  being,  whose 

bas  bewitched 'my  own,  lie  substantially  true  '.'  Wi 
to  some  potent  medicament  Margrave  owes  his  glorious  vitality  , 
his  radiant  youth  !  I  >b  !  that  i  had  not  so  disdainfully  turned 
away  from  bis  hinted  solicitations — to  what  I — to  nothing  guiltier 
lawful  experiment.  Had  1  been  less  a  devoted  bigot  to  this 
vain  Schoolcraft,  which  we  call  the  Medical  Art.  and  which  alone 
in  this  age  of  science,  has  made  no  perceptible  progress  since  the 
days  of  its  earliest  teachers — had  1  said  in  the  true  humility  of 
genuine  knowledge,  'these  alchemists  Were  men  of  genius  and 
thou;  >we  to  i  hem  near  y  ail  the  grand  hints  of  our  chemical, 

is  it-  likely  that  they  would  have  been  wholly  .drivellers 
and  idiots  in  the  one  (aito  they  clung  to  -         I  said 

that,  I    might  iy  Lilian.    ,AV 

all,  should  then  in  Nature  one  primary  esseni 

substance,  in  which  is  store*  nutriment  of  ii 

Thus  incoherently  mu  my   pride  of 

add  not  have  suffered  tn  How 


314  A    STRANGE   STORY. 

men,  I  fatigued  my  tormented  spirits  into  a  gloomy  calm,  and  me- 
chanically retraced  ray  steps  at  the  decline  of  day.  I  seated  myself 
at  the  door  of  my  solitary/  log-hut,  leaning  my  cheek  upon  my 
hand,  and  musing.  Wearily  I  looked  up,  roused  by  a  discord  of 
clattering  hoofs  and  lumbering  wheels  on  the  hollow-sounding 
grass  track.  A  crazy,  groaning  vehicle,  drawn  by  four  horses, 
emerged  from  tbe  copse  of  gum-trees — fast,  fast  along  the  road, 
which  no  such  pompous  vehicle  had  traversed  since  that  which  had 
borne  me — luxurious  satrap  for  an  early  colonist — to  my  lodge  in 
the  wilderness.  What  emigrant  rich  enough  to  squander,  in  the 
hire  of  such  an  equipage,  more  than  its  cost  in  Englund,  could 
thus  be  entering  on  my  waste  domain  1  An  ominous  thrill  shot 
through  me. 

The  driver — peiv.aps  some  broken-down  son  of  luxury  in  the 
Old  World,  fit  for  nothing  in  the  New  World  but  to  ply  for  hire 
the  task  that  might  have  led  to  his  ruin  when  plied  in  sport — stop- 
ped at  the  door  of  my  hut,  and  called  out,  "  Friend,  is  not  this  the 
great  Fenwick  Section  1  and  is  not  yonder  pile  of  building  the 
Master's  house  1 " 

Before  Fcould  answer  I  heard  a  faint  voice,  within  the  vehicle, 
speaking  to  the  driver  ;  tbe  last  nodded,  descended  from  his  seat, 
opened  the  carriage  door,  and  offered  his  arm  to  a  man,  who,  waving 
aside  the  proffered  aid,  descended  slowly  and  feebly ;  paused  a 
moment  as  if  for  breath,  and  then,  leaning  on  his  staff,  walked  from 
the  road,  across  the  sward  rank  with  luxuriant  herbage,  through 
the  little  gate  in  the  new-set  fragrant  wattle-fence,  wearily,  languid- 
ly, halting  often,  till  he  stood  facing  me,  leaning  both  wan,  emaci- 
ated hands  upon  his  staff,  and  his  meagre  form  shrinking  -deep 
within  the  folds  of  a  closk  lined  thick  with  costly  sables.  His 
I.  it  was  sharp,  his  complexion  of  a  livid  yellow,  his  eyes  shone 
out  from  their  hollowed  orbits,  unnaturally  enlarged  and  fatally 
bright.  Thus,  in  ghastly  contrast  to  his  former  splendor  of  youth 
and  opulence  of  life,  Margrave  stood  before  me. 

"  I  come  to  you,"  said  Margrave,  in  accents  hoarse  and  broken, 
"  from  the  shores  of  the  East,  drive  me  shelter  and  rest.  I  have 
that  to  say  which  will  more  than  repay  you." 

Whatever  till  that  moment  my  hate  and  my  fear  of  this  unex- 
pected visitant,  hate  would  have  been  inhumanity,  fear  a  meanness, 
conceived  for  a  creature  so  awfully  stricken  down. 

Silently,  involuntarily,  1  led  him  into  the  house.  There  he 
rested  a  few  minutes  with  closed  eyes  and  painful  gasps  for  breath. 
Meanwhile  the  driver'  brought  from  the  carriage  a  traveling-bag 
and  a  small  wooden  ch  st  or  coffer,  strongly  banded  with  iron  clamps. 
Margrave,  looking  up  as  the  man  drew  near,  exclaimed  fiercely, 
"  Who  told  you  to  touch  that  chest  1  How  dare  you  1  Take  it 
from  that  man,  Fenwick  !     Place  it  here — here  by  my  side  !  " 

I  took  the  dhest  from  the  driver,  whose  rising  anger  at'  being  so 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  315 

imperiously  rated  in  the  land  of  democratic  equality,  was  appeased 
by  the  gold  w  iicfi  Margrave  lavishly  flung  to  him. 
'  "Take  care  of  the  poor  gentleman,  squire,"  he  whispered  to  me, 
in  the  spontaneous  impulse  of  gratitude  ;  "  I  fear  he  will  not 
trouble  you  long.  He  must  be  monstrous  rich.  Arrived  in  a  ves- 
sel hired  all  to  himself,  and  a  (rain  of  outlandish  attendants,  whom 
he  has  left  behind  in  the  town  yonder  !  May  1  bait  my  horses  in 
your  stables'?     They  have  come  a  long  way." 

1  pointed  to  the  neighboring  stables,  aud  the  man  nodded  his 
thanks,  remounted  his  box,  and  drove  off. 

I  returned  to  Margrave.  A  faint  smile  came  to  his  lips  as  I 
placed  the  chest  beside  him. 

"Ay,  ay!"  he  muttered.  "Safe,  safe!  1  shall  soon  be  well 
again — very  soon  !     And  now  I  can  sleep  in  peace  !" 

lied  him  into  an  inner  room,  in  which  there  was  a  beu.  Ete 
threw  himself  on  it  with  a  loud  sigh  of  relief.  Soon,  half  raising 
himself  on  his  elbow,  he  exclaimed,  "The  chest — bring  it  hither! 
I  need  it-  always  beside  me  !  There,  there  !  Now  a  few  hours  of 
sleep  ;  and  then,  if  I  can  take  food,  or  some  such  restoring  cordial 
as  your  skill  may  sugg  st,  1  shall  be  strong  enough  to  nil!;.  We 
will  talk!— we  will  talk!" 

His  eyes  closed  heavily  as  his  voice  fell  into  a  drowsy  mutter. 
A  moment  more  and  he  was  asleep. 

1  watched  beside  him  in  mingled'  wonder  and  compassion. 
Looking  into  that  face  so  altered,  yet  still  so  young,  I  could  not 
sternly  question  what  had  b  .-en  the  evil  of  that  mystic  life,  which 
seemed  now  oo'/ing  away  through  the.  last  sands  in  the  hour-glass. 
I  placed  my  hand  softly  on  his  pulse:  it  scarcely  beat.  1  put  my 
ear  to  his  breasti  and  involuntarily  sighed  as  I  distinguished  iu  its 
fluttering  heave  that  dull,  dumb  sound  in  which  the  heart  seems 
kiu-lling  itself  to  the  greedy  grave  !         , 

Was  ibis  indeed  the  potcii  magician  whom  I  bad  so  feared  1 
This  the  guide  to  the  Rosicruoian's  secret  of  life's  renewal,  in  whom 
but  an  hour  or  two  ago  my  fancies  gulled  my  credulous  trust  .' 

But  suddenly,  even  while  thus  chiding  my  wild  superstitions, — 
a  fear  that  to  most  will  seem  scarcely  less  superstitious,  shol 
across  me.  Could  Lilian  be  affected  by  the  near  neighborhood 
of  one  to  whose  magnetic  influence  she  had  once  been  so  strangely 
subjected]  1  lefl  .Margrave  still  sleeping,  closed  and  locked  the 
door  of  the  hut,  wenl  back  to  my  dwelling,  and  met  Amy  al  the 
threshold.  IKr  smile  .was  so  cheering  that  1  fell  at  once  re- 
lieved. 

"Hush!"  said  the  child,  putting  her  linger  to  berlips,  '.'she 
is  so  quiet!  1  was  coming  in  search  of  you,  with  a  message 
from  her." 

"  from  Lilian  to  me — what  !    to  me  '." 

"  Hush!  About  an  hour  ago  she  beckoned  me  to  draw  mar 
to   her,   and    then    said,  very  softly,  "Tell   Allen    thai    light   is 


316  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

coming  back  to  me,  and    it   all  settles  on  him — on  him.      Tell 
him  that  I  pray  to  be  spared  to  walk  by  his  side  on  earth,  hand- 
in-hand  to  that  heaven  which  is  no  dream,  Amy.     Tell  him  that ;' 
— no  dream.5  "  * 

.  While  the  child  spoke  my  tears  gushed,  and  the  strong  hands 
in  which  I  veiled  my  face  quivered  like  the  leaf  of  the  aspen. 
And  when  I  could  command  my  voice,  I  said  plaintively, 

"May  I  not,  then,  see  her? — only  for  a  moment,  and  answer 
her  message,  though  but  by  a  look  1 "  . 

"No,  no!" 

"No!     Where  is  Faber  ? " 

"  Gone  into  the  forest,  in  search  of  some  herbs,  but  he  gave 
me  this  note  for  you." 

I  wiped  the  blinding  tears  from  'my  eyes,  and  read  these  lines : 

*'  I  have,  though  with  hesitation,  permitted  Amy  to  tell  you 
the  cheering  words,  by  which  our  beloved  patient  confirms  my 
belief  that  reason  is  coming  back  to  her — slowly,  laboringly,  but, 
if  she  survive,  for  permanent  restoration.  On  no  account  at- 
tempt to  precipitate  or  disturb  the  work  of  Nature.  As  dan- 
gerous as  a  sudden  glare  of  light  to  eyes  long  blind  and  newly 
regaining  vision,  in  the  friendly  and  soothing  dark, — would  be 
the  agitation  that  your  presence  at  this  crisis  would  cause. — 
Confide  in  me." 

I  remained  brooding  over  these  lines  and  ovei  Lilian's  mes- 
sage, long  and  silently;  while  Amy's  soothing  whispers  stole  into 
ar,  soft  as  the  murmurs  of  a  rill  heard  in  the  gloom  of  forests. 
Rousing  myself  at  length,  my  thoughts  returned  to  Margrave.-r- 
Doubtless  he  would  st  on  awake.      I  bade  Amy  bring  me  such" 
slight  nutriment  as  I  thought  best  suited  to  his  enfeebled  state, 
telling  her  it  was  for  a  sick  traveler  resting  himself  in  my  hut. — 
When  Amy  returned,  I  took  from  her  the  little  basket  with  which 
she  was  charged,  and   having,  meanwhile,  made  a  careful  selec- 
from  the  contents  of  my  medicine  chest,  went  back  to  the  hut. 
I  had  not  long  resumed  my  place  beside  Margrave's  pillow  before 
•  he  awoke.      .     ' 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  with  an  anxious  voice. 

"  About  seven." 

"  Not  later  ?     That  is  well ;  my  time  is  precious." 

"  Compose  yourself,  and  eat." 

•  I  placed  the  food  before  him,  and  he  partook  of  it,  though  spa- 
ringly, and  as  if  with  effort,  He  then  dozed  for  a  short  time, 
again  woke  up,  and  impatiently  demanded  the  cordial,  which  I  had 
pre,  ared  in  the  meanwhile.  Its  effect  was  greater  and  more  im- 
mediate than  I  could  have  anticipated,' proving,  perhaps,  how 
much  of  youth  there  was  still  left  in  his  sysem,  however  under- 
mined and  ravaged  by  disease.  Color  came  back  to  his  cheek,  his 
voice  grew  perceptibly  stronger.     And  as   I  lighted  the  lamp  on 


A    STRANGE    STOEY.  817 

the  table  near  us — for  it  was  growing  dark — he  gathered  himself 
up,  and  spoke  thus : 

"You  remember  that  I  once  pressed  on  you  certain  experi- 
ments. My  object  then  was  to  discover  the  materials  from  which 
is  extracted  the  specific  that  enables  the  organs  of  life  to  expel 
disease  and  regain  vigor.  In  that  hope  I  sought  your  intimacy. 
An  intimacy  you  gave,  but  withdrew." 

"Dare  you  complain  '.  Who  and  what  was  the  being  from 
Whose  intimacy  I  shrunk  appalled  I  " 

"Ask  what  questions  you  please,"  cried  Margrave,  impatiently, 
"later, — if  I  have  strength  left  to  answer  them.  But  do  not  in- 
terrupt me  while  1  husband  my  force  to  say  what  alone  is  impor- 
tant in  me  and  to  you.  Disappointed  in  the  hopes  I  had  placed 
in  you,  I  resolved  to  repair  to  Paris, — that  great  furnace  of  all 
bold  ideas.  [  questioned  learned  formalists ;  I  listened  to  auda- 
cious empirics.  The  first,  with  all  their  boasted  knowledge,  were 
too  timid  to  concede  my  premises;  the  second,  with  all  their\spec- 
ulative  daring,  too  knavish  to  let  me  trust  to  their  conclusions.  I 
found  but  one  man;  a  Sicilian,  who  comprehended  the  secrets 
are  called  occult,  and  had  the  courage  to  meet  Nature  and  all  her 
agencies  face  to  face.  He  believed,  and  sincerely,  that  he  was 
approaching  the  grand  result,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  per- 
ished from  want  of  I  uions  which  a  tyro  in  chem- 

would  have  taken.     At  his  death  the  gaudy 
hateful  ;     all   its  pretended  pleasures  only   served    to  exhaust  life 
aster.     The   I  luth  are  those  of    the  wild  bird 

and  wild  brute  in  the  healthful  enjoyment  If  Nature,     in  oi 
youth  is  but  old  age  with 'a  varnish.     I  tied  to  the  East ;  1  passed 
through  the  tents  of   the  Arabs;    I  was  guided — no   matter  i>\ 
whom  or  by  what — to  the  house  of  a  Dervish,  who  had  had  he,; his 
teacher  the  most   erudite,  master  of  si  uli,  whom   I 

years  ago  at  Aleppo — why  thai,  exclamation  ?" 

"Proceed.     What  1  have  to  say  will  come — later." 

"Prom  this  Dervish  I  half-forced  and  half-purchased  the  s 
1  sought  to  obtain.  1  now  know  from  what  peculiar  substance 
'led  elixir  of  life  is  extracted;  I  know  also  the 
ie  process  through  which  that  task  is  accomplished.  You 
smile  increduleusiyf  What,  is  your  doubt?  State  it  while  1 
rest  for  a  moment.  My  breath  labors;  give  me  more  vi'  the 
cordial." 

"  Need  i  tell  you  my  doubt  .'     You  have,  you  say,  at  your  i 
mand  the  elixir  of  life  of  which  Oaglipstro  did  not  leave"  his 
pies  the  recipe;  and  you  stretch  out  your  hand  for  a  vulgar  cordial 
which  any  village  chemist  could  give  you  !  " 

"I  can  explain  this  apparent  contradiction.  The  process  by 
which  the  elixir  is  extracted  from  the  material  which  hoards  its 
essence  is  one  that  requires  a  hardihood  of  courage  which  few 
p«M«s«.      Tlwe  D«rvi«U,  wb«    ksd    pas*«d  through  that  pJooess 


318  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

once,  was  deaf  to  all  prayer,  and  unmoved  by  all  bribes,  to  attempt 
it  again.  He  was  poor,  for  the  secret  by  which  metals  may  be 
transmuted  is  not,  as  the  old  alchemists  seem  to  imply,  identical 
with  that  by  which  the  elixir  of  life  is  extracted.  He  had  only 
been  enabled  to  discover,  in  the  niggard  strata  of  the  lands  within 
range  of  his  travel,  a  few  scanty  morsels  of  the  glorious  substance. 
From  these  he  hacl  extracted  scarcely  enough  of  the  elixir  to  .fill  a 
third  of  that  little  glass  which  I  have  just  drained.  He  guarded 
every  drop  for  himself.  W^io  that  holds  healthful  life  as  the  one 
boon  above  all  price  to  the  living,  would  waste  upon  others  what 
prolongs  and  recruits  his  own  being?  Therefore,  though  he  sold 
me  his  secret  he  would  not  sell  me  his  treasure." 

"  Any  quack  may  sell  you  the  information  how  to  make  not  only 
an  elixir,  but  a  sun  and  a  moon,  and  then  scare  you  from  the  exper- 
iment I iy  tales  of  the  danger  of  trying  it!  How  do  you  know 
that  this  essence  which  the  Dervish  possessed  was  the  elixir  of 
life,  since  it 'seems  you  have  not  tried  on  yourself  what  effect  its 
precious  drops' could  produce?  Poor  wretch  !  who  oncu  seemed 
in  me  so  awfully  potent,  do  you  come  to  the  Antipodes  in  search 
of  a  drwj;  that  only  exists  in  the  fables  by  which  a  child  is 
amused  :'  " 

"The  elixir  of  life  is  no  fable,"  cried  Margrave,  with  a  kindling 
of  eye,  a  power  of  voice,  a  dilation  of  form  that  startled  me  in  one 
just*  before  so  feeble.  "  That  elixir  was  bright  in  my  veins  when 
we  last  met.  From  that  golden  draught  of  the  life-spring  of  joy 
I  took  all  that  can  gladden  creation.  What  age  would  not  have 
exchanged  his  wearisome  knowledge  for  my  lusty  revels  with  Na- 
ture? What  monarcn  would  not  have  bartered  his  crown,  with  its 
brain-ache  of  care,  for  the  radiance  that  circled  my  brows  flash- 
ing out.  from  the  light  that  was  in  mel  Oh  again,  oh  again,  to 
enjoy  the  freedom  of  air* with  the  bird,  and  the  glow  of  the  sun 
with  the  lizard ;  to  sport  through  the  blooms  of  the  earth,  Na- 
1  ure's  playmate  and  darling;  to  face,  in  the  forest  and  desert,  the 
leopard  and. the  lion — Nature's  bravest  and  fiercest, — her  first-born, 
the  heir  of  her  realm,  with  the  rest  of  her  children  for  slaves!  "  ' 
As  these  words  burst  from  his  lips  there  was  a  wild  grandeur 
in  the  aspect  of  this  enigmatical  being  which  I  had  never  beheld 
in  the  former  time  of  his  affluent,  dazzling  youth.  And  indeed  in 
his  language,  and  in  the  thoughts  it  clothed,  there  was  an  earnest- 
ness, a  concentration,  a  directness,  a  purpose,  which  had  seemed 
wanting  to  his  desultory  talk  in  the  earlier  days.  I  expected  that 
reaction  of  languor  and  exhaustion  would  follow  his  vehement 
outbreak  of  passion  ;  but  after  a  short  pause  he  went  on  with 
steady  accents.  His  will  was  sustaining  his  strength.  He  was 
determined  to  force  his  convictions  on  me,  and  the  vitality,  once 
so  rich,  rallied  all  its  lingering  forces  to  the  aid  of  his  intense 
desire. 

"I  tell  you,  then,"  he  resumed,  with  deliberate  calmness,  "  that, 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  319 

years  ago,  I  tested  in  my  own  person  that  essence  which  is  the 
sovereign  medicament.  In  me,  as  you  saw  me  at  L ,  you  he- 
held  the  proof  of  its  virtues.  Feeble  aud  ill  as  I  am  now,  my 
state  was  incalculably  more  hopeless  when  formerly  restored  by 
Hie  elixir.  He  from  whom  1  then  took  the  sublime  restorative, 
died  without  revealing  the  secret  of  its  composition.  What  I  ob- 
tained was  only  just  sufficient  to  recruit  the  lamp  of  my  life,  then 
dying  down — and  no  drop  was  left  for  renewing  the  light  which 
wastes  its  own  rays  in  the  air  that  it  gilds.  Though  the  Dervish 
would  not  sell  me  his  treasure,  he  permitted  me  to  see  it.  The 
appearance  and  odor  of  this  essence  are  strangely  peculiar — un- 
mistakable by  one  who  has  once  beheld  and  partaken  of  it.  In 
,  short,  I  recognized  in  the  hands  of  the  Dervish,  the  bright  life- 
renewer,  as  .1  had  borne  it  away  from  the  corpse  of  the  .Sage  of 
Aleppo."              / 

"  Hold !  Are  you  then  in  truth  tl>e  murderer  of  Haroun,  and  is 
your  true  name  Louis  Grayle  I  " 

"I  am  no  murderer,  and  Louis  Grayle  did  not  leave  me  his 
,name.  1  again  adjure  yon  to  postpone,  for  this  night  at  least,  the 
questions  you  wish  to  address  to  me. 

"  Seeing  that  this  obstinate  pauper  possessed  that  for  which  the 
pale  owners  of  millions,  at  the  first  touch  of  palsy  or  gout,  would 
consent  to  be  paupers,  of  course  I  coveted*the  possession  of  the 
essence  even  more  than  the  knowledge  of  the  substance  from  which 
it.  is  extracted.  1  had  no  coward  fear  of  the  experiment,  which 
This  timid  driveller  had  not  the  nervy  to  renew.  Hut  still  the  ex- 
periment might  fail.  I  must  traverse  land  and  sea  to  find  the  tit 
place  for  it.  While  in  the  rags  of  the  Dervish,  the  unfailing  re- 
sult of  the  experiment  was  at  hand.  The  Dervish  suspected  my 
design — he  dreaded  my  power,  lie  fled  on  the  very  night  in  which 
I  had  meant  to  seize  what  he  refused  to  sell  me.  After  all,  I 
should  have  done  him  no  great  wrong;  for  I  should  have  left  him 
wealth  enough  to  transport  himself  to  any  soil  in  which  the 
material  tor  the  elixir  may  he  most  abundant,  and  the  desire  of  life 
Would  have  giveo  his  shrinking  nerves  the  courage  to  replenish  its 
ravished  store.  I  had  Arabs  in  my  pay,  who  obeyed  me  as  hounds 
their  master.  1  chased  the  fugitive.  1  came  on  his  track",  reached 
a  bouse  in  a  miserable  village, in  which,  1  was  told,  he  had  entered 
but  an  hour  before.  The  day  was  declining:  the  light  in  the 
room  imperfect.  I  saw  in  a  corner  what  seemed  to  me  the  form  of 
the  Dervish — stooped  to  seize  it,  and  my  hand  closed  on  an  asp. 
The  artful  Dervish  had  so  piled  his  rags  that  they  took  the  shape 
of  the  form  they  had  clothed,  and  he  had  left,  as  a  substitute  for 
iver  of  life,  the  venomous  reptile  of  death. 

"The  strength  of  my  sys  em  enabled  me  to  survive  the  effeot 
of  the  poison  ;   but  during  the  torpor  thai    numbed  me,  my    Arabs, 

alarmed,  gave  no  chase  to  my  quarry.    At  last,  though  enfeeblefi 

and  languid.  I   was  again  en  my  horse;    again   the  pursuit — again 


320  A    STRANGS    STORY. 

g 

the  track !  I  learned — but  this  time  by  a  knowledge  surer  than 
man's — that  the  Dervish  had  taken  his  refuge  in  a  hamlet  that  had 
sprung  up  over  the  site  of  a  city  ..once  famed  through  Assyria. 
The  same  voice  that  informed  me  of  his .  whereabouts  warned  me 
not  to  pursue.  I  rejected  the  warning.  In  my  eager  impatience  I 
sprang  on  to  the  chase  ;  in  my  fearless  resolve  I  felt  sure  of  the 
prey.  I  arrived  at  the  hamlet  wearied  out,  for  my  forces  were  no 
longer  the  same  since  the  bite  of  the  asp.  The  Dervish  eluded  me 
still :  he  had  left  the  floors,  on  which  I  sank  exhausted,  but  a  few 
minutes  before  my  horse  stopped  at  the  door,  The  carpet  on 
which  lie  had  rested  still  lay  on  the  ground.  I  dismissed  the 
youngest  and  keenest  of  my  troop  in  search  of  the  fugitive.  Sure 
that  this  time  he  would  not  escape,  my  eyes  closed  in  sleep. 

"  How  long  I  slept  I  know  not — a  long  dream  of  solitude,  fever 
and  anguish.  Was  it  the  curse  ot  the  Dervish's  carpet?  W'as.  it 
a  taint  in  the  walls  of  the  house,  or  of  the  air,  which  broods  sickly 
and  rank  over  places  where  cities  lie  buried?  I  know  not;  but 
the  Pest  of  the  East  had  seized  me  in  slumber.  When  my  senses^ 
recovered  1  found  myself  alone,  plundered  of  ray  aims,  despoiled 
of  such  gold  as  1  had   carried   about    me.     All    had  deserted,  "and 

ie,  as  the  living  leave  the  dead  whom  the  Plague  has  claimed 

for  its  own.     . .  as  I  could,  stand  I  cr&wled  from  the  thres- 

ipment  my  voice  was  heard,  my  face  seen,  tin.'  whole 

ace  rose  as  on  a  wild  beast — a  mad  dog.      I  was 

ice  with  imprecations  and  stones,  as  a  miscreant 

whom   the  Plague  had  overtaken,  while  plotting  the  death  of  a 

holy  man.      Bruised  "and  bleeding,  but  still  defying,  I  turned  in 

wrath  on  that 'dastardly  rabble;  they  slunk  away  from  my  path. 

I  knew  the  land  for  miles  around.     1   had  been  in  that  land  years, 

.ears,  ago.  I  came  at  last  to  the  roads  which  the  caravans 
take  <m  their  way  to  Damascus.  There  I  was  found,  speechless 
and  seemingly  lifeless,  by  some  European  travelers.  Conveyed  to 
Damascus,  1  languished  for  weeks  between  life  and  death.  But 
that  essence,  which  lingered  yet  in  my  veins,  I 
could  not  have  survived — even  thus  feeble  and  shattered.  I  need 
not  say  that,  I  now  abandoned  all  thought  of  discovering  the 
Dervish.  I  had  at  least  his  secret,  if  1  had  failed  of  the  paltry 
supply  be,  had  drawn  from  its  uses.  Such  appliances  as  he  had 
told  me  were  needful  are  procured  in  the  East  with  more  ease  than 
in  Europe.  To  sum  up,  1  am  here — instructed  in  all  the  knowl- 
edge, and  supplied  with  all  the  aids,  which  warrant  me  in  saying, 
'  Do  you  care  for  new-life  in  its  richest  enjoyments,  if  not  for  your 
self,  for  one  whom  you  love,  and  would  reprieve  from  the  grave  V 
Then  share  with  me  in  a  task  that  a  single  night  will  accomplish, 
and  ravish  a  prize  by  which  the  life  that  you  value  the  most  will 
be  saved  from  the  dust  and  the  worm,  to  live  on,  ever  young,  ever 
blooming,  while  each  infant — new-born  while  I  speak — shall  have 


A    STRAMOK    STORY.  Stfl 

passed  to  the  grave.     Nay,  where  is  the  limit  to  life  whil 
earth  hides  the  substance  by  which  life  is  renewed  V 

I  give  as  faithfully  as  I  can  recall  them,  the  words  in  which 
Margrave  addresssd  me.  But  who  can  guess  by  cold  v 
transcribed,  even  were  I  hey  artfully  ranged  by  a  master  of  lan- 
guage!, the  effect  words  produce  when  warm  from  the  breath  of 
the  speaker  ?  Ask  one  of  an  audience  which  some  orator  held  en- 
thralled, why  his  words  do  not  quicken  a  beat  in  the  reader's 
pulse,  and  the  answer  of  one  who  had  listened  will  be.  " 
words  took  their  charm  from  the  voice  and  the  eye,  the  aspect;,  the 
manner,  the  man  !"  So  it  was  with  the  incomprehensible  being 
before  me.  Though  his  youth  was  faded,  though  his  beauty  was 
dimmed,  though  my  fancies  clothed  him  with  memories  of  abhor- 
rent Bread,  though  my  reason  opposed  his  audacious  beliefs  and 
assumptions,  still  he  charmed  and  spell-bound  me;  still  he  was 
the  mystical  Fascinator;  still,  if  the  legends  of  magic  had  truth 
for  their  basis,  he  was  the  born  magician;  as  genius,  in  what  call- 
ing soever,  is  born  with  the  gifl  to  enchant  and  subdue  i 

Constraining  myself  to  answer  calmly,  T  said,  "You  have 
told  me  your  story  ;  you  have  defined  the  object  of  lie  experiment 
in  which  you  ask  me  to  aid.  You  do  right  to  bid  me  postpone  my 
replies  or  my  questions.      Seek  to  recruit  by  sleep  the  strength 

you  have  so  sorely  tasked.     To-morrow " 

"To-morrow,  ere  night,  you  will  decide  whether  the  man  whom 
ou I  of  all  earth  1  have  selected  to  aid  me,  shall  be  the  foe  to  con- 
demn me  to  perish  !  1  tell  yon -plainly  T  need  your  aid,  and  your 
prompt  aid.     Three  days  from  this  and  all  aid  will  be  too  late !  " 

1  had  already  gained  the  door  of  the  room,  when  he  called  to 
me  to  come  back. 

"  You  do  not  live  in  this  hut,  but  with  your  family  yonder.  Do 
not  tell  them  that  1  am  here  ;  let  no  one  but  yourself  see  me  as  I 
now  am.  Lock  the  door  of  the  hut  when  yon  quit  it.  I  should 
nol  close  ,:■   eyes  if  I  were  not  secure  from  intruders." 

"There  is  but  one  in  my  house,  or  in  these  parts,  whom  T  would 
except  from  the  interdict  you  impose.  You  are  aware  of  your  own 
imminent  danger;  the  life  which  you  believe  the  discovery  of  a 
Dervish  will  indefinitely  prolong  seems  to  my  eye  of  physician  to 
hang  on  a  thread.  I  have  already  formed  my  own  conjecture 
to  the  nature  of  the  disease  that,  enfeebles  you.  But  I  would  fain 
compare  that  conjecture  with  the  weightier  opinion  of  one  whose 
experience  and  skill  arc  superior  to  mine.  Permit  me,  then, 'when 
I  return  to  you  to-morrow,  to  bring  with  me  the  great  physician  to 
whom  1  id.  r.  His  name  will  not,  perhaps,  be  unknown  to  you. 
I  speak  of  Julius  Faber." 

u  of  the  schools!     I  can  guess  well  enough  how 

sdly  he  would  prate  and  how  little  he  could  do.     But  I  will 

not  object   to  his  visit,  if  it  satisfies  you  that,  since  I  should  die 

uuder  the  hands  of  the  doctors,  I  may  be  permitted  to  indulge 

21 


322  A    STRANOB    STORY. 

my  own  whim  in  placing  my  hopes  in  a  Dervish.  Yet  stay.  You 
have,  doubtless,  spoken  of  me  to  this  Julius  Faber,  your  fellow 
physician  and  friend  1  Promise  me,  if  you  bring  him  here, 
that  you  will  not  name  me,  that  you  will  not  repeat  to  him  the 
tale  I  have  told  you,  or  the  hope  which  has  led  me  to  these  shores. 
What  I  have  told  to  you,  no  matter  whether  at  this  moment  you 
consider  me  the  dupe  of  a  chimera,  is  still  under  the  seal  of  the 
confidence  which  a  patient  reposes  in  the  physician  he  himself 
selects  for  his  confidant.     I  select  you,  and  not  Julius  Faber !" 

"  Be  it  as  you  will,"  said  I  after  a  moment's  reflection.  "  The 
moment  you  make  yourself  my  patient  I  am  bound  to  consider 
what  is  best  for  you.  And  you  may  more  respect  and  profit  by  an 
opinion  based  upon  your  purely  physical  condition  than  by  tone  in 
which  you  might  suppose  the  advice  was  directed  rather  to  the 
disease  of  the  mind  than  to  that  of  the  body." 

"  How  amazed  and  indignant  your  brother  physician  will  be  if 
he  ever  see  me  a  second  time  !  How  learnedly  he  will  prove  that, 
according  to  all  correct  principles  of  science  and  nature,  I  ought 
to  be  dead  !" 

He  uttered  this  jest  with  a  faint,  dreary  echo  of  his  old  merry, 
melodious  laugh,  then  turned  his  face  to  the  wall ;  and  so  I  left 
him  to  repose. 

* 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

I  found  Mrs.  Ashleigh  waiting  for  me  in  our  usual  sitting-room. 
She  was  in  tears.  She  had  begun  to  despond  of  Lilian's  recovery, 
and  she  infected  me  with  her  own  alarm.  However,  I  disguised 
my  participation  in  her  fears,  soothed  and  sustained  her  as  I  best 
could,  and  persuaded  her  to  retire  to  rest.  I  saw  Faber  for  a  few 
minutes  before  I  sought  my  own  chamber.  He  assured  me  that 
there  was  .no  perceptible  change  for  the  worse  in  Lilian's  physical 
state  since  he  had  last  seen  me,  and  that  her  mind,  even  within  the 
last  few  hours,  had  become  decidedly  more  clear.  He  thought  that 
within  the  next  twenty-four  hours  the  reason  would  make  a  strong 
and  successful  effort  for  complete  recovery;  but  he  declined  to, 
hazard  more  than  a  hope  that  the  effort  would  not  exhaust  the  en-' 
feebled  powers  of  the  frame.  He  himself  was  so  in  need  of  a  few 
hours  of  rest  that  I  ceased  to  harrass  him  with  questions  which  he 
could  not  answer,  and  fears  which  he  could  not  appease.  Before 
leaving  him  for  the  night,  I  told  him  briefly  that  there  was  a 
traveler  in  my  hut  smitten  by  a  disease  that  seemed  to  me  so  grave 
that  I  would  ask  his  opinion  of  the  case,  if  he  could  accompany  me , 
to  the  hut  the  next  morning. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  323 

My  own  thoughts  that  night  were  not  such  as  would  suffer  me  to 
sleep. 

Before  Margrave's  melancholy  state  much  of  my  former  fear 
and  abhorrence  faded  away.  This  being, so  exceptional  that  fancy 
might  well  invest  him  with  preternatural  attributes,  w'as  now  re- 
duced by  human  suffering  to  human  sympathy  and  comprehension. 
Yet  his  utter  want  of  conscience  was  still  as  apparent  as  in  his 
day  of  joyous  animal  spirits.  With  what  hideous  candor  he  had 
related  his  periidity  and  ingratitude  to  the  man  to  whom,  in  his 
belief,  he  owed  an  inestimable  obligation,  find  with  what,  insensi- 
bility to  the  signal  retribation  which  in  must  natures  would  have, 
awakened  remorse  ! 

And  by  what  dark  hints  and  confessions  did  he  seem  to  confirm 
the  incredible  memoir  of  Sir  Philip  Derval !  He  owned  that  be 
had  borne  from  the  corpse  of  Haroun  the  medicament  to  which  he 
ascribed  his  recovery  from  a  state  yet.  more  hopeless  than  that 
under  which  be  now  labored  !  He  had  alluded  rapidly,  obscurely, 
to  some  knowledge  at  his  command  "  surer  than  man's!"  vnd 
now,  even  now,  the  mere  wreck  of  his  former  existence,  by  what 
strange  charm  did  be  still  control  and  confuse  my  reason!  And 
how  was  it  that  I  felt  myself  murmuring,  again  and  again.  "But 
what,  after  all,  if  bis  nope  be  no  chimera,  and  if  Nature  do  hide  a 
secret  by  which  I  could  save  the  life  of  my  beloved  Lilian  I  " 

And  again  and  again,  as  that  thought  would  force,  itself  on  me, 
I  rose  and  c  Kept  to  Lilian's  threshold,  listening  to  catch  the  faintest 
sound  of  her  breathing.  All  still,  all  dark !  and  the 
physician  doubts  whether  recognized  science  can  turn  aside  from 
her  couch  the  slealtby  tread  of  death,  while  in  yon  log-hut 
whose  malady  recognized  science  could  net  doubt  to  be  mortal  has 
composed  himself  to  sleep  confident  of  life  !  Recognized  science! 
recognized  ignorance  !  The  science  of  to-day  is  the  ignorance  of 
to-morrow  !*  Every  year  some  bold  guess  lights  up  a.  truth  to 
which  but  the  year  before  the  school-men  of  science  were  as  blinded 
as  moles. 

"  What  then,"  my  lips  kept  repeating — "what  if  Nature  do  hide 
a  secret  by  which  the  life  of  my  life  can  be  saved  1  What  do  we 
know  of  tlie  secrets  of  Nature?  What  said  Newton  himself  of  his 
knowledge  ?  •  1  am  like  a  child  picking  up  pebbles  and  shells  on 
the  sand,  while  the  great  ocean  of  Truth  lies  all  undiscovered 
around  me  ! '  And  did  Newtou  himself,  in  the  ripest  growth  of  his 
matchless  intellect,  hold  the  creed  of  the  alchemists  in  scorn  i  Had 
he  not  given  to  one  object  of  their  research,  in  the  transmutation  of 
s  and  his  nights  ?  Is  there  proof  that  he  ever  con- 
vinced himself  that,  the  research  was  the  dream  which  we,  who  are 
not  Newtons,  call  it  ?*     And  that  other  great  sage,  inferior  only  to 

*  •'  Besides  tke  three  great  subjects  of  Newton's  labors — the  fluxional  cal- 
culus, physical  astronomy,  and  optics  -  a  very  large  portion  of  his  time,  while 
resident  iu  hi*  college,  was  dvvoted  t«  rcxeurthe*  of  wuifk  etarcely  a  trace 


324  A    STRAIVGH    STORY. 

'Newton — the   calculating  dpubt^weigher,   Descartes — had  he  not' 
believed  in  the  yet  nobler  hope  of  the  alchemists — believed  in  some 
occult  nostrum  or  process  by  which  human  life  could  attain  to  the 
age  of  the  Patriarchs  ?"* 

remains.    Alchemy,  which  had  fasi  i  many  eager  and  ambitious  minds, 

seems  to  have  tempted  Newton  with  an  overwhelming  force.  What  theories 
he  formed,  what  experiments  he  tried,  in  that  laboratory  where,  it  is  said, the  ; 
fire  was  scarcely  extinguished  for  weeks  together,  will  never  be  known.  It 
is  certain  that  no  success  attended  his  labors ;  and  Newton  was  not  a  man — 
like  Kepler— to  detail  t$  the  world  all  the  hopes  and  disappointments,  all  the 
crude  and  mystical  fancies,  which  mixed  themselves^  up  with  his  career  of 

philosophy Many  years -later  we  find  Newton  in  correspondence  with 

Locke,  with  reference  to  a  mysterious  red  earth  by  which  Bt>yle,  who  was 
then  recently  dead,  had  asserted  that  he  could  effect  the  grand  desideratum 
of  multiplying  gold.  By  this  time,  however,  Newton's  faith  had  become  some- 
what shaken  by  the  unsatisfactory  communications  which  he  bad  himself 
received  from  Boyle  on  the  subject  of  the  golden  recipe,  though  be  did  not 
abandon  the  idea  of  giving  the  experiment  a  further  trial  as  soon  as  the  weather 
should  become  suitable  for  furnace  experiments." — Quarterly  Review,  No. 
•220,  pp.  125-6. 

*  Southey,  iu  his  Doctor,  vol.  vi,  p.  2,  reports  the  conversation  df  Sir  Kenelm 
Djgby  with  Descartes,  in  which  the  great  geometrician  said./"  That  as  fori 

ring  men  immortal,  it  was  what  lie  could  not  venture  to  promise,  but 
that  he  was  very  sure  he  could  prolong  hie  life  to  the  standard  of  the  patri- 
archs." And  Southey  adds,  "that  St.  Evremond,  to  whom  Digby  repeated 
this,  says  that  this  opinion  of  Descartes  was  well  known  both  to  his  friends  in 
Holland  and  in  France."     By  the    stress   Southey  lays   on  this  hearsay  evi- 

,  it  is  clear  that  he  was  not  acquainted  with  the  works  and  biography  of 

Descartes,  or  be  would  have  gone  to  the  fountain-head  for  authority  on  Des- 

opinions — namely,  Descartes  himself.     It  is  to  be  wished  that  Southey 

no  one  more  than  he  would  have  appreciated  the  exquisitely 

candid  and  livable  nature  of  the  illustrious  Frenchman,  and  the  since!  ity  with 

be  cherished  in  his  heart  whatever  doctrine  he  conceived  in  his  uuder- 

Descartes,  whose  knowledge  of  anatomy  was  considerable,  had  that 

passion  for  the  art  of  medicine  which  is  almost  inseparable  from  the  pursuit 

of  natural  philosophy.     At  the  age  of  twenty-four  be  had  sought  (in  Germany) 

to  obtain  initiation  into  the  brotherhood  of  the  Kosicruciansj,  but,  unluekilyj 

could  not  discover  any  member  of  the  society  to  introduce  him.     "He  de- 

Bired,"  says  Cousin,  "  to  assure  the  health  of  mar.,  diminish  bis  ills,  extend  his 

existent,-      He  was  terified  by  the  rapid  and  almost  momentary  passage  of 

man  upon  earth.     He  believed.it  was  not.  perhaps,  impossible  to  prolong  its 

duration. "     There  is  a  bidden  recess  of  grandeur  in  this  idea,  and  the  means 

proposed  by  Descartes  for  the  execution  of  his  project  were  not  less  grand.    In 

his   Discourse  on  Method,   Descartes  says,    "If  it  is  possible  to  find  some 

means  to  render  generally  men  more  wise'  and  more  able  than  they  have  been 

till  now,  it  is,  I  believe,  in  medicine  that  those   means  must  be  sought I 

am  sure  that  there  is  no  one,  even  in  the  medical  profession,  who  will  not  avow 
that  all  which  one  knows  of  the  medical  art  is  almost  nothing  in  comparison 
to  that  which  remains  to  learn,  and  that  one  could  be  exempted  from  an  in- 
finity of  maladies,  both  of  body  and  mind,  and  even,  perhaps,  from  the  decrepi- 
tude of  old  age,  if  one  had  sufficient  lore  of  their  causes  and  of  all  the  reme- 
dies which  nature  provides  for  them.  Therefore,  having  design  to  employ  all 
my  life  in  the  research  of  a  science  so  necessary,  and  having  discovered  a  path 
which  appears  to  me  such  that  one  ought  ivfullably,  in  folloicing ,  to  find  it.  if  one 
is  not  hindered  prematurely  by  the  brevity  of  life  or  by  the  defects  of  experi- 
ence, I  consider  that  there  is  no  better  remedy  against  those  two  hindrances 
than  to  communicate  faithfully  to  the  public  the  little  I  have  found,"  etc. 
(lDw?»w*  4s  k  Metb«d»,  vol.  i.     CSuvreg  in  Demjarto*,  Cousin's  edition.) 


A    STRA.NUB    STORY.  325 

Iii  thoughts  like  these  the  night  wore  away,  the  moonbeams 
that  streamed  through  my  window'lighting  up"  the  spacious  soli- 
tudes ^eyond— mead  and  creek,  forest  land,  mountain  top— and 
the  silence  without  broken  by  the  wild  cry  of  the  night-hawk  and 
the  sibilant  melancholy  dirge  of  the  shining  chrvsoeocvx  ■*  bird 
that  never  sings  but  at  night,  and  obstinately  haunts  the  roots  of 
the  Mek  and  dying,  ominous  of  woe  and  death. 

But  up  sprang  the  sun,  and,  chasing  these  gloomy  sounds,  put 
hurst  the  wonderful  chorus  of  Australian  groves,  the  great  king- 
fisher opening  the  jocund  melodious  babble,  with  the  glee  of  his 
social  laugh. 

And  now  I  heard  Faber's  step  in  Lilian's  room— heard,  through 
the  door,  her  soft  voice,  though  I  could  not  distinguish  the  words. 
Jtwas  not  long  before  I  sawthe  kind  physician  standing  at 
threshold  ol  my  chamber.  lie  pressed  his  finger  to  his  'lip. 
made  me  a  sign  to  follow  him.  1  obeyed,  with  noiseless  (read  and 
stilled  breathing.  lie  wailed  me  in  the  garden-  under  the  flower- 
ing acacias,  passed  his  arm  in  mine,  and  drew  me  into  the  open 
past  ure-land. 

"l  ourself,"  he  then  said;  "I  bring  you  tidings  both 
of  gladness  and  of  fear.  Your  Lilian's  mind  is  restored  :  even  the 
memories  which  had  been  swept  away  by  the  fever  that  followed 
her  return  to  her  home  in  L are  returning,  though  as  yet  in- 
distinct. She  yearns  to  see  you,  to  bless  you  for  all  your  noble 
devotion,  your  generous,  great-hearted  love;'  but  I  forbid  such  in- 
terview now.  If  in  a  few  hours  she  .become  either  decidedly 
stronger  or  decidedly  more  enfeebled,  you  shall  be  summoned  to 
her  side.  Even  if  you  are  condemned  to  a  loss  for  which  the  sole 
"onsolalion  nmst.be  placed  in  the  life  hereafter,  you  shall  have  at   - 

And  again,  in  his  Correspondence  (vol.  is,  p.  341),  he  savs,  "  The  conserva- 
tori  of  health  has  been  always  the  principal  object  of  my  studies,  and  I  hove 
po  doubt  that  there  is  a  means  of  acquiring  much  knowledge  touching  medi- 
cine which,  up  to  this  time,  is  ignored."    He  then  refers  to  his  meditated 

e  on  Animals  as  onl)  an  entrance  upon  that  knowledge     But  whatever 

Descartes  may  have  thought  to  discover,  they  are  not  made  known  to 

the  public  according  to  Lis  promise.    And  in  :i  letter  to  M.  Chaout,  written 

four  years  before  he  died),  he  says  ingeniously,  "  I  will  tell  you  in  con- 

Sdetue  that  the  notion,  such  as  it  is,  which  1  have  endeavored  to  acquire  in 

I  philosophy,  has  greatly  a,  isted  to  establish  certain  foundations 

ior  moral  philosophy;  am!  thai  I  am  more  easily  satisfied  upon  this  point  than 
many  others  touching  medicine,  to  which  T    have,  nevertheless  de- 

mch  more  time.  So  thai"  (adds  the  grand  thinker  with  a  pathetic 
idleness .)— "  so  that,  instead  of  finding  the  means  to  preserve  Ufa,  I  have  found 
luotht  r  good,  mort  easy  and  more  sun,  which  is— not  to  /"<«r  death" 

cyx  lijcidus— namely,  the  bird  popularly  called  ;  or 

Died  cuckoo.       Its  note  is  an  exceedingly  melancholy  wl  rd  at 

rt»  wl".1  ick  or  nervous  person  who  „,av  b< 

p.    I  have  known  many  instances  where  the  bird!  ■,-!,. 

in  the  vicinity  of  the  room  of  an  invalid  uttering  it.  mournful 
only  with  the  greatest  difficult]  that  it  could  bedisloi 
■>  position.   -Dr.  Bennett's  Gatherings  of  a  Naturalist  in  Austral 


326  A   STRANOE   STORY. 

least  the  last  mortal  commune  of  soul  with  soul.  Courage — 
courage  !  You  are  man  !  Bear  as  man  what  you  have  so  often 
bid  other  men  submit  to  endure."  » 

I  had  flung  myself  on  the  ground — writhing  worm  that  had  no 
home  but  on  earth  !  Man,  indeed  !  Man  !  All  at  that  moment  I 
took  from  manhood  was  its  acute  sensibility  to  love  and  to  anguish ! 

But  after  all  such  paroxysms  of  mortal  pain  there  comes  a 
strange  lull.  Thought  itself  halts,  like  the  still  hush  of  water 
between  two  descending  torrents.  I  rose  in  a  calm,  which  Faber 
might  welj  mistake  for  fortitude. 

"Well,"  I  said,  quietly,  "fulfil  your  promise.  If  Lilian  is  to 
pass  away  from  me,  I  shall  see  her,  at  least  again ;  no  wall,  you 
tell  me,  between  our  minds  :  mind  to  mind  once  more — once 
more ! ' ' 

"  Allen,"  said  Faber,  mournfully  and  softly,  "  why  do  you 
shun  to  repeat  my  words — soul  to  soul  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay — I  understand.  Those  words  mean  that  you  have 
resigned  all  hope  that  Lilian's  life  will  linger  here  when  .her  mind 
comes  back  in  full  consciousness.  I  know  well  that  last  lightning 
flash  and  the  darkness  which  swallows  it  up  !" 

"  You  exaggerate  my  fears.  I  have  not  resigned  the  hope  that 
Lilian  will  survive  the  struggle  through  which  she  is  passing  ; 
but  it  would  be  cruel  to  deceive  you — my  hope  is  weaker  than  it 
was." 

"  Ay,  ay — again  I  understand  !  Your  science  is  in  fault — it 
desponds.  Its  last  trust  is  in  the  wonderful  resources  of  Nature 
— the  vitality  stored  in  the  young  ?" 

"  You  have  said.  Those  resources  of  nature  arc  wondrous. — 
The  vitality  of  youth  is  a  fountain  springing  up  from  the  deeps 
out  of  sight,  when,  a  moment  before,  we  had  measured  the  drops 
oozing  out  from  the  sands,  and  thought  that  the  well  was  ex- 
hausted." 

"  Come  with  me — come.  I  told  you.  of  another  sufferer  yon- 
der. I  want  your  opinion  of  his  case.  But  can  you  be  spared  a 
few  minutes  from  Lilian's  side  V 

"  Yes  ;  I  left  her  asleep.  What  is  the  case  that  perplexes  your 
eye  of  physician,  which  is  usually  keener  than  mine,  despite  all 
the  length  of  my  practice  ?" 

"  The  sufferer  is  young — his  organization  rare  in  its  vigor.  He 
has  gone  through  and  survived  assaults  upon  life  that  are  'com- 
monly fatal.  His  system  has  been  poisoned  by  the  fangs  of  a 
venomous  asp,  and  shattered  by  the  blast  of  the  plague.  These 
alone,  I  believe,  would  not  suffice  to  destroy  him.  But  he  is  one 
who  has  a  strong  dread  of  death.  And  while  the  heart  was  thus 
languid  and  feeble,  it  has  been  gnawed  by  emotions  of  hope  or  of 
fear.  I  suspect  that  he  is  dying,  not  from  the  bite  of  the  reptile, 
uot  from  the  taint  of  the  pestilence,  but  from  the  hope  and  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  327 

fear  that  have  overtasked  the  heart's  functions.    Judge  for  your- 
self." 

We  were  now  at  the  door  of  the  hut.  I  unlocked  it :  we  en- 
tered. Margrave  had  quitted  his  bed,  and  was  pacing  the  room 
slowiy.  His  step  was  less  feeble,  his  countenance  less  haggard 
than  on  the  previous  evening. 

He  submitted  himself  to  Faber's  questioning  with  a  quiet  in- 
difference, and  evidently  cared  nothing  for  any  opinion  which  the 
great  physician  might  found  on  his  replies. 

When  Faber  had  learned  all  he  gould,  he  said,  with  a  grave 
smile,  "  I  see  that  my  advice  will  have  little  weight  with  you  ; 
such  as  it  is,  at  least  reflect  on  it.  The  conclusions  to  which  your 
host  arrived  in  his  view  of  your  case,  and  which  he  confided  to 
me,  are,  in  my  humble  judgment,  correct.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
the  great  organ  of  the  heart  is  involved  in  the  cause  of  your  suf- 
ferings ;  but  the  heart  is  a  noble  and  much-enduring  organ.  I 
have  known  men  in  whom  it  has  been  more  severely  and  unequiv- 
ocally affected  with  disease  than  it  is  in  you,  live  on  for  many 
years,  and  ultimately  die  of  some  other  disorder.  But  then  life 
was  held,  as  yours  must  be  held,  upon  one  condition — repose.  I 
enjoin  you  to  abstain  from  all  violent  action  ;  to  shun  all  excite- 
ments that  cause  moral  disturbance.  You  are  young :  would  you 
live  on,  you  must  live  as  the  old.  More  than  this — it  is  my  duty 
to  warn  you  that  your  tenure  on  earth  is  very  precarious ;  you 
may  attain  to  many  years  ;  you  may  be  suddenly  called  hence  to- 
morrow. The  best  mode  to  regard  this  uncertainty,  with  tin-  ca! 
in  which,  is  your  only  chance  of  long  life,  is  so  to  arrange  all  your 
worldly  affairs,  and  so  to  discipline  all  your  human  anxieties,  as  to 
feel  always  prepared  for  the  summons  that  may  come  without 
warning.  For  the  rest,  quit  this  climate  as  soon  as  you  can — it. 
is  the  climate  in  which  the  blood  courses  too  quickly  for  one  who 
should  shun  all  excitement.  Seek  the  most  equable  atmosphere — 
choose  the  most  tranquil  pursuits — and  Fenwick  himself,  in  his 
magnificent  pride  of  stature  and  strength,  may  be  nearer  the 
grave  than  you  are." 

"  Your  opinion  coincides  witli  that  I  have  just  heard?"  asked 
Margrave,  turning  to  me. 

"  Ln  much — yes."' 

"  It  is  more  favorable  than  I  should  have  supposed.  I  am  far 
from  disdaining  the  advice  so  kindly  offered.  Permit  me,  in  turn, 
two  or  three  questions,  Dr.  Faber.  Do  you  prescribe  to  me  no 
drugs  from  your  pharmacopoeia  ?" 

"  Drugs  may  palliate  many  sufferings  incidental  to  organic  dis- 
ease ;  but  drugs  cannot  reach  organic  disease  itself." 

"Do  you  believe  that,  even  where  disease  is  plainly  organic, 
Nature  lie. self  has  no  alterative  and  reparative  powers  by  which 
the  organ  assailed  may  recover  itself?" 

"  A  few  exceptional  instances  of  such  forces  in  nature  are  upon 


328  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

record  ;  but  we  must  go  by  general  laws,  arid  not  by  exceptions." 

"  Have  you  never  known  instances,  do  you  not  at  this  moment 
know  one,  in  which  a  patient  whose  malady  harries  the  doctor's 
skill,  imagines  or  dreams  of  a  remedy?  Call  it  a  whim,  if  you 
please,  learned  sir;  do  you  not  listen  to  the  whim,  and,  in  des- 
pair of  your  own  prescriptions,  complv  with  those  of  the  pa- 
tient?" 

Faber  changed  countenance,  and  even  started.  Margrave 
watched  him,  and  laughed. 

"  You  grant  that  there  are  such  cases,  in  which  the  patient  gives 
the  law  to  the  physician.  Now  apply  your  experience  to  my  case. 
Suppose  some  strange  fancy  had  seized  upon  my  imagination — 
that  is  the  doctor's  cant  word  for  all  phenomena  that  we  call  ex- 
ceptional— some  strange  fancy,  that  I  had  thought  of  a  cure  for 
this  disease  for  which  you  have  no  drugs;  and  suppose  this  fancy 
of  mine  to  be  so  strong,  so  vivid,  that  to  deny  me  its  gratification 
would  produce  the  very  emotion  from  which  you  warn  me  as  fa- 
tal— storm  tbe  heart  that  you  would  soothe  to  repose  by  the  pas- 
sions of  rage  and  despair — would  you,  as  my  trusted  physician, 
concede  or  deny  me  my  whim  1" 

"  Can  you  ask  ?  I  should  grant  it  at  once,  if  1  had  no  reason 
to  know  thai  the  thing  which  you  fancied  was  harmful." 

••  Good  man  and  wise  doctor.  1  have  no  other  question  to  ask. 
1  thank  you." 

Faber  looked  hard  on  the  young  wan  face,  over  which  played  a 
smile  of  triumph  and  irony  ;  then  turned  away  with  an  expression 
of  doubt  and  trouble  on  his  own  noble  countenance.  I  followed 
him  silently  into  the  open  air. 

"  "Who  and  what  is  this  victor  of  yours?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Who  and  what !     I  cannot  tell  you." 

Faber  remained  some  moments  musing,  and  muttering  slowly  to 
himself.  "  Tut,  but  a  chance  coincidence — a  bap-hazard  allusion 
to  a  fact  which  he  could  not  have  known  !" 

•'  Faber,"  said  I,  abruptly,  "  can  it  he  that  Lilian  is  the  patient 
in  whose  self-suggested  remedies  you  confide  more  than  in  the 
various  learning  at  command  of  your  practised  skill  ?" 

"  I  cannot  deny  it,"  replied  Faber,  reluctantly.  "  In  the  inter- 
vals of  that  suspense  from  waking  sense,  which  in  her  is  not 
sleep,  nor  yet  altogether  catalepsy,  she  has,  for  the  last  few  days, 
stated  accurately  the  precise  moment  in  which  the  trance — if  I 
may  so  call  it — would  pass  away,  and  prescribed  for  herself  the 
remedies  that  should  be  then  administered.  In  every  instance  the 
remedies  so  self-prescribed,  though  certainly  not  those  whjch 
would  have  occurred  to  my  mind,  have  proved  efficacious.  Her 
rapid  progress  to  reason  I  ascribe  to  the  treatment  she  herself  or- 
dained in  her  trance,  without  remembrance  of  her  own  sugges- 
tions when  she  awoke.  I  had  meant  to  defer  communicating  ihese 
phenomena  in  tbe  idiosyncrasy  of  her  case  until  our  minds  could 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  329 

more  calmly  inquire  into  tlie  process  by  which  ideas — not  appa- 
rently derived  as  your  metaphysical  school  would  derive  all  ideas, 
from  pre-conceived  experiences — will  thus  sometimes  acl  like  an 
instinct  on  the  human  sufferer,  lor  self-preservation,  as  the  bird  is 
directed  to  the  herb  or  the  berry  which  heals  or  assuages  its  ail- 
ments. We  know  how  the  mesmerists  would  account  for  this 
phenomenon  of  hygienic  introvisio.fi  and  clairvoyance.  But  here 
there  is  no  mesmerizer,  unless  the  patient  can  he  supposed  to  mes- 
merize herself.  Long,  however,  before  mesmerism  was  heard  of. 
medical  history  aitests  examples  in  which  patients  who  baffled  the 
skill  of  the  ablest  physicians  have  fixed  their  fancies  on  some  rem- 
edy that  physicians  would  cull  inoperative  for  good  or  for  harm, 
and  have  recovered  by  the  remedies  thus  singularly  8elfJ8Uggested. 
Ami  Hippocrates  himself,  if  I  construe  his  meaning  rightly,  re- 
cognizes the  powers  for  self-cure  which  the  condition  of  fc] 
will  sometimes  bestow  on  the  sufferer,  '  where'  (says  the  father  of 
our  art),  'ihe  sight  being  closed  to  the  external,  the  soul  more 
truthfully  perceives  the  affections  of  the  body.'  In  short — I  own 
it — in  this  instance,  the  skill  of  the  physician  has  been  a  compli- 
ant obedience  to  the  instinct  called  forth  in  the  patient.  And  the 
hopes  1  have  hitherto  permitted  myself  to   give  you  were  founded 

ly  experience  that  her  own  ived   in  trance,  had 

never  been  fallacious  or  exaggerated.  The  simples  that  1  gath- 
ered for  her  yesterday  she  had  desei  -y  are  not,  in  our 
herbal.  Hut  as  they  are  sometimes  used  by  the  natives,  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  analyze  their  chemical  properties  shortly  after  I  came 
to  ihe  colony,  and  they  seemed  tome  as  innocent  as  lime-blossoms. 
They  are  rare  in  this  part  of  Australia,  but  she  told  me  where  I 
should  find  them — a  remote  spot  which  she  has  certainly  never 
visited.  Last  night,  when  you  saw  me  disturbed,  dejected,  if  was 
for'the  first  time  the  docility  with  which  she  had  hitherto, 
in  her  waking  state,  obeyed  her  own  injunctions  in  the  state  of 
trance,  forsook  me.  She  could  not  be  induced  to  taste  the  decoc- 
tion I  had  made  from  the  herbs;  and  if  you  found  me  this  morn- 
ing with  weaker  hopes  than  before,  this  is  ihe  real  cause — namely. 
that  when  1  visited  her  at  sunrise,  she  was  D61  in  sleep,  but  in 
trance,  and  in  that-  trance  she  told  me  that  she  had  nothing  more 
t.i  suggest   or  reveal;    that    on    the  complete    restoration  of  her 

ss,  which  was  at  hand,  the  abnormal  faculties  vouchsafed  to 
trance  would  be  withdrawn.  'As  for  my  life,' she  said,  quietly, 
as  if  unconscious  of  our  temporary  joy  or  woe  in  the  term  of  its 
tenure  here — '  as  for  my  life,  your  aid  is  now  idle  ;  my  own  vision 
obscure  ;  on  my  life  a  dark  and  cold  shadow  is  resting.  I  cannot 
foresee  if  ii  will  pass  away.     When  1  strive  to  look  around,  i  see 

but  my  Allen " 

"And  so,"    said    I,  mastering    my  emotions,  "in    bidding  me 
hope,  you  did  not   rely  on  your  own  resources  of  science,  but  on 
lisper  of  .Nature  in  the  brain  of  your  patient  V 


330  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  It  is  so." 

We  both  remained  silent  some  moments,  and  then,  as  he  disap- 
peared within  my  house,  1  murmured: 

"  And  when  she  strives  to  look  beyond  the  shadow  she  sees  only 
me  !  Is  there  some  prophet-hint  of  Nature  there  also,  directing 
me  not  to  scorn  the  secret  which  a  wanderer,  so  suddenly  dropped 
on  my  solitude,  assures  me  that  Nature  will  sometimes  reveal  to 
her  seeker?  And  oh,  that  dark  wanderer ;  has  Nature  a  marvel 
more  weird  than  himself!"  • 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

I  strayed  through  the  forest  till  noon,  in  debate  with  myself, 
and  strove  to  shape  my  wild  doubts  into  purpose  before  1  could 
nerve  and  compose  myself  again  to  face  Margrave  alone. 

I  reentered  the  hut.  To  my  surprise,  Margrave  was  not  in  the 
room  in  winch  I  had  left  him,  nor  in  that  which  adjoined  it.  I  as- 
cended the  stairs  to  the  kind  of  loft  in  which  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  pursue  my  studies,  but  in  which  1  had  not  set  foot  since  my 
alarm  for  Lilian  had  suspended  my  labors.  There  I  saw  Mar- 
grave quietly  seated  before  the  manuscript  of  my  Ambitious  Work, 
which  lay  open  on  the  rude  table  just  as  I  had  left  it  in  the  midst 
of  its  concluding  summary. 

"I  have  taken  the  license  of  former  days,  you  see,"  said  Mar- 
grave, smiling,  "  and  have  hit  by  chance  on  a  passage  I /-an  un- 
derstand without  effort.  But  why  such  a  waste  of  argument  to 
prove  a  fact  so  simple  l  In  man,  as  in  brute,  life  once  lost,  is  lost 
forever  ;  and  that  is  why  life  is  so  precious  to  man." 

I  took  the  book  from  his  hand  and  flung  it  aside  in  wrath. 
His  approval  revolted  me  more  with  my  own  theories  than  all 
the  argumentative  rebukes  of  Faber! 

"And  now,"  said  I,  sternly,  "the  time  has  come  for  the  explana-. 
i  ion  you  promised.  Before  I  can  aid  you  in  any  experiment  that 
may  serve  to  prolong  your  life,  I  must  know  how  far  that  life  has 
been  a  baleful  and  destroying  influence  ?" 

"  I  have  some  faint  recollection  of  having  saved  your  life  from 
an  imminent,  danger,  and  if  gratitude  were  the  attribute  of  man,  as 
it  is  of  the  dog,  1  should  claim  your  aid  to  save  mine  as  a  right. 
Ask  me  what  you  will.  You  must  have  seen  enough  of  me  to 
know  that  I  do  not  affect  either  the  virtues  or  -vices  of  others. 
I  regard  both  with  so  supreme  an  indifference  that  I  believe  I 
am  vicious  or  virtuous  unawares.     I  know  not  if  I  can  explain 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  331 

what  seems  to  have  perplexed  you,  bat  if  I  cannot  explain  I 
have  no  intention  to  lie.  Speak  ;  I  listen  ]  We  have  time 
enough  now  before  us." 

So  saying,  he  reclined  back  in  the  chair,  stretching  out  his 
limbs  wearily.  All  round  this  spoiled  darling  of  Material  Nature, 
the  aids  and  appliances  of  Intellectual  Science !  Books  and 
telescopes,  and  crucibles,  with  the  light  of  day  coming  through 
a  small  circular  aperture  in  the  boarded  casement  as  1  had  con- 
structed t lie  opening-  for  my  experimental  observation  of  1  he  pris- 
ma! rays. 

While  T  write,  bis  image  is  as  visible  before  my  remombranr 
if  before  the  actual  eye — beautiful  even  in   its  decay,  awful  even 
in  its  weakness,  mysterious  as  in  Nature  herself  amidst  all  the  me- 
chanism by  which  our  fancied  knowledge  attempts  to  measure  her 
laws  and  analyze  her  light. 

But  at  that  moment  no  such  subtle  reflections  delayed  my 
inquisitive,  eager  mind  from  its  immediate  purpose — who  and 
what  was  this  creature  boasting  of  a  secret  through  which  i 
might  rescue  from  death,  the  life  of  her  who  was  my  all  upon  the 
earth. 

1  gathered  rapidly  and  succinctly  together  all  that  I  knew  and 
all  that  I  guessed  of  Margrave's  existence  and  arts,  i  commenced 
from  my  Vision  in  that  mimic  Golgotha  of  creatures  inferior  to 
man,  close  by  the  scene  of  man's  most  trivial  and  meaningless 
pastime.  I  went  on  :  Derval's  murder;  the  missing  contents  of 
the  casket  ;  the  apparition  seen  by  the  maniac  assassin  guiding 
him  to  the  horrid  deed  ;  the  luminous  haunting  Shadow  ;  the  posi- 
tive charge  in  the  murdered  man's  memoir  connecting  Margrave 
with  Louis  Grayle,  and  accusing  him.  of  the  murder  of  HarOnn  ; 
the  night  in  the  moonlit  pavilion  at  Derval  Court ;  the  baneful  in- 
fluence on  Lilian  ;  the  struggle  between  me  and  himself  in  the 
house  by  the  sea-shore — The  strange  All  that  is  told  in  this 
Strange  Story. 

But  warming  as  I  spoke,  and  in  a  kind  of  fierce  joy  to  he  en- 
abled thus  to  free  my  own  heart  of  the  doubts  that  had  burdened 
it,  now  that  1  was  fairly  face  to  face  with  the  being  by  whom  my 
reason  had  been  perplexed  and  my  life  so  tortured,  I  was  re- 
strained by  none  of  the  fears  lest  my  own  fancy  deceived  me,  with 
which  in  his  absence  1  had  striven  to  reduce  to  natural  causes  the 
portents  of  terror  and  wonder.  I  staled  plainly,  directly,  the  be- 
liefs, the  impressions  which  1  had  never  dared  even  to  myself  to 
own  without  seeking  to  explain  them  away.  And  coming  at  last 
to  a  close,  1  said:  "Such  are  the  evidences  that  seem  to  i 
justify  abhorrence  of  the  life  that  you  ask  mo  to  aid  in  prolonging. 
Your  own  tale  of  last  nigh!  but  confir  i  slhem.  And  why  io  me — 
to  me — do  you  come  wiih  wild  entreaties  to  lengthen  the  life  that 
lias  blighted  my  own  I  How  did  you  even  learn  the  home  in  which 
I  sought  unavailing-refuge  1  -as  your  hint  to  Faber  <•; 


332  A    STRANGE   STORY. 

revealed — were  you  aware  that,  in  yon  house,  where  the  sorrow  is 
veiled,  where  the  groan  is  suppressed,  where  the  foot-tread  falls 
ghostlike,  there  struggles  now  between  life  and  death  my  heart's 
twin,  my  world's  sunshine  ?  Ah  !  through  my  terror  for  her,  is  a 
demon  that  tells  you  how  to  bribe  my  abhorrence  into  submission, 
and  supply  my  reason  into  use  to  your  ends  ?" 

Margrave  had  listened  to  me  throughout  with  a  fixed  attention, 
at  times  with  a  bewildered  stare,  at  times  with  exclamations  of 
surprise,  but  not  of  denial.  And  when  I  had  done  he  remained 
for  some  moments  silent,  seemingly  stupefied,  passing  his  hand  re- 
peatedly over  his  brow,  in  the  gesture  so  familiar  to  him  in  former 
days. 

At  length  he  said,  quietly,  without  evincing  any  sign  either  of 
resentment  or  humiliation  : 

"In  much  you  tell  me  I '  recognize  myself;  in  much  I  am  as 
lost  in  amazement  as  you  in  wild  doubt  or  fierce  wrath.  Of  the 
effect  that  you  say  Philip  Derval  produced  on  me  I  have  no  re- 
collection. Of  himself  I  have  only  this  :  that  he  was  my  foe,  that 
he  came  to  England  intent  cln  schemes  to  shorten  my  life  or  de- 
stroy its  enjoyments.  All  my  faculties  tend  to  self-preset vation ; 
there  they  converge  as  rays  in  a  focus  ;  in  that  focus  they  illume 
and — they  burn.  I  willed  to  destroy  my  intended  destroyer.  Did 
my  will  enforce  itself  on  the  agent  to  which  it  was  guided  1  Like- 
ly enough.  Be  it  so.  "Would  you  blame  me  for  slaying  the  tiger 
or  serpent — not  by  the  naked  hand,  but  by  weapons  that  arm  it? 
But  what  could  tiger  or  serpent  do  more  against  me  than  the 
man  who  would  rob  me  of  life  ?  He  had  his  arts  for  assault,  I  had 
mine  for  self-defence.  He  was  to  me  as  the  tiger  that  creeps 
through  the  jungle,  or  the  serpent  uncoiling  his  folds  for  the  spring. 
Death  to  those  whose  life  is  destruction  to  mine,  be  they  serpent, 
or  tiger,  or  man  !  Derval  perished.  Yes  !  the  spot  in  which  the 
maniac  had  buried  the  casket  was  revealed  to  me — no  matter  how: 
the  contents  of  the  casket  passed  into  my  hands.  I  coveted  that 
possession  because  I  believed  that  Derval  had  learned  from  Haroun 
of  Aleppo  the  secret  by  which  the  elixir  of  life  is  prepared,  and  I 
supposed  that  some  stores  of  the  essence  would  be  found  in  his 
casket.  I  was  deceived ;  not  a  drop  !  What  I  there  found  I 
knew  not  how  to  use  or  apply,  nor  did  I  care  to  learn.  What  I 
sought  was  not  there.  You  see  a  luminous  shadow  of  myself;  it 
iiaunls,  it  accosts,  it  compels  you.  Of  this  I  know  nothing.  Was 
ii  i he  emanation  of  my  intense  will  really  producing  this  spectre  of 
myself?  or  was  it  the  thing  of  your  own  imagination — an  imagina- 
tion which  my  will  impressed  and  sub  ugated  1  I  know  not.  At 
the  hours  when  my  shadow,  real  or  supposed,  was  with  you,  my 
senses  would  have  been  locked  in  sle  p.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
I  intensely  desired  to  learn  from  races  always  near  to  man,  but 
concealed  from  his  everyday  vision,  the  secret  that  I  believed  . 
Philip  Derval  had  carried  with   him  to  the  tomb  :   and  from  some 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  333 

cause  or  another  I  cannot  now  of  myself  alone,  as  I  could  years 
ago,  subject  those  races  to  my  /Command.  I  must  in  that  act 
through  or  with  the  mind  of  another.  It.  is  true  thai  I  sought  to 
impress  upon  your  waking  thoughts  the  images  of  the  circle,  the 
powers  of  the  wand,  winch,  in  your  trance  or  sleep-walking,  made 
you  the  involuntary  agent  of  my  will.  I  knew  by  a  dream — for 
by  dreams,  more  or  less  vivid,  are  the  results  of  my  waking  will 
sometimes  divulged  to  myself — that  the  spell  had  been  broken,  the 
discovery  i  sought  not  elfected.  All  my  hopes  were  then  transfer- 
red from  yourself,  the  dull  votary  of  science,  to  the  girl  whom  I 
charmed  to  my  thraldom  through  her  love,  for  you,  and  through 
her  dreams  of  a  realm  which  the  science  of  schools  never  enters. 
In  her  imagination  was  all  pure  and  all  -potent,  and  tell  me.  oh, 
practical  reasoner!  if  reason  has  ever  advanced  one  step /into 
knowledge  except  through  that  imaginative  faculty  which  is 
strongest  in  the  wisdom  of  ignorance,  and  weakest  in  the  ignorance 
of  the  wise.  Ponder  this,  and  those  marvels  that  perplex  you  will 
cease  to  be  marvellous.  I  pass  on  to  the  riddle  that  puzzles  yon 
it.  By  Philip  Dervaks  account  1  am,  in  truth,  Louis  Grayle 
restored  to  youth  by  the  elixir,  and  while  yei  infirm,  decrepit,  mur- 
dered llaroun  —  a,  man  of  a  frame  as  athletic  as  yours  !  By  accept- 
ing this  notion  you  seem  to  yourself  alone  to  unravel  the  mysteries 
you  ascribe  to  my  life  and  my  powers.  Oh,  wise  philosopher!  oh, 
'profound  logician!  you  accept  that  notion,  yet  hold  my  belief  in 
the  Dervish's  tale  a,  chimera  !  .  1  am  Grayle  made  young  by  the 
r,  and  yet  the  elixir  itself  is  a  fail' 
He  paused  and  laughed,  but'the  laugh  was  no  longer  even  an 
echo  of  its  former  merriment  or  playfulness — a  sinister  and  terrible 
laugh,  mocking,  threatening,  malignant. 

Again  he  swept  his  hand  over  his  brows,  and  resumed: 
"  Is  it  not  easier  to  so  accomplished  a  sage  as  you  to  believe  that 
the  idlers  of  1'aris  have  guessed  the  true  solution  of  that  problem — 
my  place  on  this  earth,  .'  May  1  not  be  the  love  son  ot  Louis 
Grayle  ?  And  when  llaroun  refused  the  elixir  to  him,  or  he  found 
that  his  frame  was  too  far  exhausted  for  even  the  elixir  to  repair 
organic  lesions  of  structure  in  the  worn  frame  of  old  age,  may  he 
not  have  indulged  the  common  illusion  of  fathers,  and  soothed  his 
death  panj  the  thought,  that -he  should  live  again  in  hi- 

llaroun  is  found  dead  on  his  carpet — rumor  said  strangled.  What 
proof  oft  e  truth  of  that  rumor  I  Might  he  not  have  passed  away 
in  a  fit?  Will  it  lessen  your 'perplexity  if  [state  recollections  1 
Tin  ie — they   often  perplex   myself;    but  so  far  from  a 

wish  io  deceive  you,  my  desire  is  to  relate  them  so  truthfully  tha: 
you  may  aid  me  to  reduce  them  into  more  definite  form." 

s  face  now  became  very  troubled,  the  tone  of  his  voice  very 
irresolute — the  .  the  voice  of  a   man  who  is  cither  blunder- 

ing his  way  through  an  intricate  falsehood  or  through  obscure  re- 
miUMtBOM. 

/ 


334  >  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

"  This  Louis  Grayle  !  this  Louis  Grayle !  I  remember  him  well, 
as  one  remembers  a  nightmare.  Whenever  I  look  back,  before  the 
illness  of  which  I  will  presently  speak,  the  image  of  Louis  Grayle 
returns  to  me.  x  I  see  myself  with  him  in  African  wilds,  command- 
ing the  fierce  Abyssinians.  I  see  myself  with  him  pi  the  fair  Per- 
sian valley — lofty,  snow-covered  mountains  encircling  the  garden 
of  roses.  I  see  myself  with  him  in  the  hush  of  the  golden  noon, 
reclined  by  the  spray  of  cool  fountains  ;  now  listening  to  cymbals 
and  lutes;  now  arguing  with  gray-beards  on  secrets  bequeathed  by 
the  Chaldees.  With  him,  with  him  in  moonlit  nights,  stealing  into 
the  sepulchres  of  mythical  kings.  I  see  myself  with  him  in  the 
aisles  of  dark  caverns,  surrounded  by  awful  shapes,  which  have  no  ' 
likeness  among  the  creatures  of  earth.  Louis  Grayle !  Louis 
yle  !  all  my  earlier  memories  go  back  to  Louis  Grayle!  All 
.its  and  powers,  all  that  I  have  learned  of  the  languages  spoken 
in  Europe,  of  the  sciences  taught  in  her  schools,  I  owe  to  Louis 
Grayle.  But  am  I  one  and  the  same  with  him  1  No.  I  am  but 
a  pale  reflection  of  his  giant  intellect.  I  have  not  even  a  reflection 
of  his  childlike  agonies  of  sorrow.  Louis  Grayle!  He  stands 
apart  from  me,  as  a  rock  from  the  tree  that  grows  out  from  its 
chasms.     Yes,  the  gossip  was- right ;  I  must  be  his  son." 

He  leaned  his  face  on  both  hands,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro. 
At  length,  with  a  sigh,  he  resumed  : 

"  I  remember,  too,  a  long  and  oppressive  illness,  attended  with 
racking  pains  ;  a  dismal  journey  in  a  wearisome  litter,  the  light 
hand  of  the  woman  Ayesha,  so  sad  and  so  stately,  smoothing  my 
pillow  or  fanning  my  brows.  I  .remember  the  evening  on  which 
my  nurse  drew  the  folds  of  the  litter  asi  le,  and  said,  '  See  Aleppo! 
and  the  star  of  thy  birth  shining  over  its  walls  !  ' 

"  1  remember  a  face  inexpressibly  solemn  and  mournful.  I  re- 
member the  chill  that  the  co.hr,  of  its  ominous  eye  sent  through  my 
veins — the  face  of  Haroun,  the  Sage  of  Aleppo.  I  remember  the 
vessel  of  crystal  he  bore  in  his  hand,  and  the  blessed  relief  from  my 
pains  that  a  drop  from  the  essence  which  flashed  through  the  crystal 
bestowed!  And  then — and  then — I  remember  no  more  till  the 
night  on  which  Ayesha  came  to  my  couch  and  said,  '  Rise.' 

"And  I  rose,  leaning  on  her,  supported  by  her.  We  went 
through  dim,  narrow  streets,  faintly  lit  by  wan  stars,  disturbing  the 
prowl  of  the  dogs,  that  slunk  from  the  look  of  that  woman.  We 
came  to  a  solitary  house,  small  and  low,  and  my  nurse  said, '  W^it.' 

"  She 'opened  the  door  and  went  in;  I  seated  myself  on  the 
threshold.  And  after  a  time  she  came  out  from  the  house,  and  led 
me,  still  leaning  on  her,  into  a  chamber. 

"  A  man  lay,  as  in  sleep,  on  the  carpet,  and  beside  him  stood 
another  man,  whom  I  recognized  as  Ayesha's  special  attendant — 
an  Indian.  '  Haroun  is  dead  ! '  said  Ayesha.  '  Search  for  that 
which  wili  give  thee  new  life.  Thou  hast  seen,  and  wilt  know  it, 
not  I."' 


•  \ 

A    STRANGE    STORY.  335 

"  And  I  put  my  hand  on  the  breast  of  Haronn — for  the  dead 
man  was  he — and  drew  from  it  the  vessel  of  crystal. 

"  Having  done  so,  the  frown  on  his  marble  brow  appalled  me. 
I  staggered  back,  and  swooned  away. 

"  I  came  to  my  senses,  recovered  and  rejoicing,  miles  afar  from 
the  city,  the  dawn  red  on  its  distant  walls.  Ayesha  had  tended 
me  ;  the  elixir  had  already  restored  me. 

"My  first  thought,  when  full  consciousness  came  back  to  me, 
rested  on  Louis  Grayle,  for  he  also  had  been  at  Aleppo.  1  was 
but  one  of  his  numerous  train.  He  too  was  enfeebled  and  suffer- 
ing; ho  had  sought  the  known  skill  of  Haroun.  for  himself  as  for 
me;  and  this  woman  loved  and  had  tended  him  as  she  bad  loved 
and  tended  me.  And  my  nurse  told  me  that  he  was  dead,  and  for- 
bade  me  henceforth  to  breath  his  name. 

"  "We  traveled  on — she  and  I,  and  the  Indian,  her  servant — m;. 
strength  still  renewed  by  the  wondrous  elixir.  No  longer  sup- 
ported by  her;  what  gazelle  ever  roved  through  its  pasture  with  a 
bound  more  elastic  than  mine  .' 

"We  came  to  a  town,  and  my  nurse  placed  before  me  a  mirror. 
I  did  not  recognize  myself.  In  this  town  we  rested  obscure,  till 
the  letter  there  reached  me  by  which  I  learned  that  I  was  the  off- 
spring of  hue,  and  enriched  by  the  care  of  a  father  recently  dead. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Louis  Grayle  was  this  father  ?  " 

"If  so,  was  the  woman,  Ayesha,  your  mother?  " 

"  The  letter  said  that  '  my  mother  had  died  in  my  infancy.' 
Nevertheless,  the  care  with  which  Ayesha  had  tended  me  induced 
a  suspicion  that  made  me  ask  her  the  very  question  you  put.  She 
wept  when  1  asked  her,  and  said,  '  No,  only  my  nurse.'  And  now 
I  needed  a  nurse  no  more.  The  day  after  I  received  the  letter 
which  announced  an  inheritance  that  allowed  me  to  vie  with  the 
nobles  of  Europe,  this  women  left  me,  and  went  back  to  her  tribe." 

"  Have  you  never  seen  her  since'?  " 

Margrave  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  though  with 
seeming  reluctance,  "  Yes,  at  Damascus.  Not  many  days  after  1 
was  borne  to  that  city  by  the  strangers,  who  found  me  half  dead 
on  their  road,  1  woke  one  morning  to  find  her  by  my  side.  And 
she  said,  '  In  joy  and  in  health  you  did  not  need  me.  I  am  needed 
now.'  " 

"  Did  you  then  deprive  yourself  of  one  so  devoted  !     You 
made  this  long  voyage — from  Egypt  to  Australia — alone  ;  you. 
to  whom  wealth  gave  no  excuse  for  privation  t  " 

"  The  woman  came  with  me,   and  some  chosen  attendants.     1 
ged  to  ourselves  the  vessel  we  sailed  in." 

••  Where  have  you  lefl    \  our  companions  '{  " 

"  By  this  hour,"  answered  Margrave,  "they  are  in  reach  of  m\ 
summons;  and  when  you  and  1  have  achieved  the  discovery — in 
the  results  of  which  we  shall  share — I  will  exact  no  more  from 
\our  aid.     1  trust  all  that  rests  for  my  cure  to  my  uurte  and   her 


336  A    STRANGE   STORY. 

swarthy  'attendants.  You  will  aid  me  now,  as  a  matter  of  course  ; 
the  physician  whose  counsel  you  needed  to  guide  your  own  skill 
enjoins  you  to  obey  my  whim — if  whim  you  still  call  it ;  you  will 
obey  it,  for  on  that  whim  rests  your  sole  hope  of  happiness — you, 
who  can  love — I  love  nothing  but  life.  Has  my  frank  narrative 
solved  all  the  doubts  that  stood  between  you  and  me,  in  the  great 
meeting-ground  of  an  interest  in  common  ?" 

"  Solved  all  the  doubts  !  Your  wild  story  but  makes  some  the 
darker,  leaving  others  untouched  ;  the  occult  powers  of  which  you 
boast,  and  some  of  Which  I  have  witnessed — your  very  ^insight 
into  my  own  household  sorrows,  into  the  interest  I  have,  with 
V! "••urself,  in  the  truth  of  a  faith  so  repugnant  to  reason — " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Margrave,  with  that  slight  curve  of 
the  lip  which  is  half  smile  and  half  sneer,  "if,  in  my  account  of 
myself,  1  omitted  what  1  cannot  explain  and  you  cannot  conceive; 
let  me  first  ask  how  many  of  the  commonest  actions  of  the  com- 
monest   men  are  purely  involuntary  and  wholly  inexplicable  ] — 
When,  for  instai/e,  you  open  your  lips  and  utter  a  sentence,  you 
have  not  the  faintest  idea  beforehand  what  word  will  follow  an- 
other :  when  you  move  a  muscle  can  you  tell  me  the  thought  that 
ipts  to  the  movement  1     And,  wholly  unable  thus  to  account 
our  own  sample  sympathies  between  impulse  and  act,  do  you 
believe  that  there  exists  a  man  upon  earth  who  can  read  all  the 
riddles  in  the  heart  and  brain  of  another?     Is  it  not  true  that  not 
one  drop  of  water,  one  atom  of  matter,  ever  really  touches  another  ? 
Between  each  and  each   there    is    always    a    space,  however  in- 
simally  small.     How,  then,  could  the  world  go  on  if  every  man 
]  another  to  make  Ids  whole  history  and  being  as  lucid  as  day - 
before  he  would  buy  and  sell  with  him  1     All  interchange  and 
alliance  rests  but  on  this — an  interest  in  common — you  and  1  have 
established  that  interest.     All  the  rest,  all  you  ask  more,  is  super- 
fluous.    Could  I  answer  each  doubt  you  would  raise,  still,  wh< 
the  answer  would  please   or  revolt    you,  your   reason  would  come 
back  to  the  same  starting-point,  namely,  in  one  definite  proposal 
have  we  two  an  interest  in  comiaon  :"' 

And  again  Margrave  laughed,  not  in  mirth  but  in  mockery. — 
The  laugh  and  the  words  that  preceded  it  were  not  the  laugh  and 
the  words  of  the  young.  Could  it.be  possible  that  Louis  Grayle 
had  indeed  revived  to  false  youth  in  the  person  of  Margrave,  such 
might  have  been  his  laugh  and  such  his  words.      The  whole  mind 

fargrave  seemed  to  have  undergone  change  since  I  last 
him  ;  more  rich  in  idea,  more  crafty  even  in  candor,  more  power- 
ful, more  concentred.  As  we  see  in  our  ordinary  experience  that; 
some  infirmity,  threatening  dissolution,  brings  forth  more  vividly 
the  reminiscences  of  early  years,  when  impressions  were  vigorously 
stamped,  so  I  might  have  thought  that,  as  Margrave  neared  the 
tomb,  the  memories  he  had  retained  from  his  former  existence  in  a 
being  more   amply  endowed,  more   formidably   potent,  struggled 


A   STRANGE    STORY.  337 

back  to  the  brain,  and  the  mind  that  had  lived  in  Louis  Grayle 
moved  the  lips  of  the  dying  Margrave. 

"  For  the  powers  and  the  arts  that  it  equally  puzzles  your  rea- 
son to  assign  or  deny  to  me,"  resinned  my  terrible  guest,  "  I  will 
say  briefly  but  this:  they  come  from  faculties  stored  within  my- 
self, and  doubtless  conduce  to  my  self-preservation — faculties 
more  or  less,  perhaps  (so  Van  Helmonl  asserts),  given  to  all  men, 
though  dormant  in  mosi — vivid  and  active,  in  me,  because  in  me, 
self-preservation  has  been  and  yet  is  the  strong  master-passion  or 
instinct  ;  and  because  1  have  been  taught  how  to  use  and  direct 
such  faculties  by  disciplined  teachers  ;  some  by  Louis  (Irayle,  the 
enchanter;  some  by  my  nurse,  the  singer  of  charmed  songs.  But 
in  much  that  I  will  to  have  done  I  know  no  more  than  yourself 
how  the  agency  acts.  Enough  for  me  to  will  what  I  wished,  and 
sink  calmly  in  slumber,  sure  that  the  will  would  work  somehow 
iis  way.  But  when  I  have  willed  to  know  what,  when  known, 
should  shape  my  own  courses,  I  could  see,  without  aid  from  your 
pitiful  telescopes,  all  objects  howsoever  afar.  What  wonder  in 
that  1  Have  you  no  learned,  puzzle-brain  metaphysicians,  who 
tell  you  that  space  is  but  an  idea,  all  this  palpable  universe  an 
idea  in  the  mind,  and  no  more  !  Why  am  1  an  enigma  as  dark  as 
the  Sibyl's,  and  your  metaphysicians  as  plain  as  a  horn-book  ?" — 
Again  the  sardonic  laugh.  U  Enough  :  let  what  1  have  said  ob- 
scure or  enlighten  your  guesses,  we  come  back  to  the  same  link  of 
union,  which  binds  man  to  man,  bids  states  arise  from  the  desert, 
foe  men  embrace  as  brothers.  I  need  you,  and  you  need  me  ; 
without  your  aid  my  life  is  doomed  ;  without  my  secret  the  breath 
will  have  gone  from  the  lips  of  your  Liliau  before  the  sun  of  to- 
morrow is  red  on  yon  hill-tops." 

"  Fiend  or  juggler!"  I  cried,  in  rage,  "you  shall  not  so  en- 
slave and  enthral  me  by  this  mystic  farrago  and  jargon!  Make 
your  fantastic  experiment  on  yourself,  if  you  will  :  trust  to  your 
arts  and  your  powers.  My  Lilian's  life  shall  not  hang  on  your 
fiat..    I  trust  it— to— " 

"  To  what — to  man's  skill  ?  Hear  what  the  sage  of  the  col- 
lege shall  tell  you,  before  I  aslc  you  again  for  your  aid.  Do  you 
trust  to  God's  saving  mercy?  Ah,  of  course  you  believe  in  a 
Cod  I  Who  except  a  philosopher  can  reason  a  Maker  away  I — 
But  that  the  Maker  will  alter  His  courses  to  hear  you  ;  that,  wheth- 
er or  not  you  trust  in  Him  or  in  your  doctor,  it  will  change  by"  a 
hair-breadth  the  thing  that  must  be — do  you  believe  this,  Allen 
Fenwiok  \" 

And  there  sat  this  reader  of  hearts  !  a  boy  in  his  aspect,  mock- 
ing me  and  the  gray-beards  of  schools. 

1  could  listen  no  more;   I  turned  to  the  door  and  fled  down  the 
-.  and  beard,  as  1  fled,  a    low  chant  ;   feeble  and  faint,  it  was 
Btill  the  old  barbaric  chant   by  which  the  serpent  is  drawn  from 
its  hole  by  the  charmer. 
22 


338  A    STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

To  those  of  my  readers  who  may  seek  with  Julius  Fabcr  to 
explore,  through  intelligible  causes,  solutions  of  the  marvels  I 
narrate,  Margrave's  confession  may  serve  to  explain  away  much 
that  my  own  superstitious  beliefs  had  obscured.  To  them  Mar- 
grave is  evidently  the  son  of  Louis  Grayle.  The  elixir  of  life  is 
reduced  to  some  simple  restorative,  owing  much  of  its  effect  to 
the  faith  of  a  credulous  patient;  youth  is  so  soon  restored  to  its 
joy  in  the  sun,  with  or  without  an  elixir.  To  them,  Margrave's 
arts  of  enchantment  are  reduced  to  those  idiosyncrasies  of  tem- 
perament on  which  the  disciples  of  Mesmer  build  up  their  theo- 
ries ;  exaggerated,  in  much,  by  my  own  superstitions;  aided,  in 
pari,  by  such  natural,  purely  physical  magic  as,  explored  by  the 
ancient  priestcrafts,  is  despised  by  the  modern  philosophies,  and 
only  remains  occult  because  Science  delights  no  more  in  the  fil 
of  the  lantern  which  fascinated  her  childhood  with 
phantoms.     To  theft).,   Margrave  is,  perhaps,  an  enthusiast, 

mse  an  enthusiast.,  not  less  an  impostor.  "  JWHommi 
fique"  says  Charron.  Man  cogs  the  dice  for  himself  ere  he 
ties  the  box  for  his  dupes.  Was  there  ever  successful  impo 
who  did  not  commence  by  a  fraud  on  his  own  understanding 
Cradled  in  Orient  Fable-land,  what  though  Margrave  believe 
its  legends  ;  in  a  wand,  an  elixir;  in  sorcerers  or  Afrites? 
belief  in  itself  makes  him  l>cen  to  detect,  and  skilful  to  profit 

atent  but  kindred  credulities  of  others.     In  all  illustrations 

luper  and  Duped  through  the  records  of  superstition — from 
the  guile  of  a  Cromwell,  a  Mahomet,  down  to  the  cheats  of  a 
gipsy — professional  visionaries  are  amongst  theastutes'  observers. 

knowledge  that  Margrave  had  gained  of  my  abode,  of  my  af- 
fliction, or  of  the  innermost  thoughts  in  my  mind,  it  surely  demand- 
ed no  preternatural  aids  to  acquire.  An  Old  Bailey  attorney 
could  have  got  at  the  one.  and  any  quick  student  of  human  hearts 
have  readily  mastered  the  other.  In  fine,  Margrave,  thus  ration- 
a  ly  criticized,  is  no  qfher  prodigy  (save  in  degree  and  concur- 
rence of  attributes  simple,  though  not  very  common)  than  may  be 
found  in  each  alley  that  harbors  a  fortune-teller  who  has  just  faith 
enough  in  the  stars  or  the  cards  to  bubble  himself  while  he  swin- 
dles his  victims  ;  earnest,  indeed,  in  the  self-conviction  that  he  is 
really  a  seer,  but  reading  the  looks  of  his  listeners,  divining  the 
thoughts  that  induce  them  to  listen,  and  acquiring  by  practice  a 

ing  ability  to  judge  what  the  listeners  will  deem  it  most 
eeer-like  to  read  in  the  cards  or  divine  from  the  stars. 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  339 

I  leave  this  interpretation  unassailed.  It  is  that  which  is  the 
most  probable,  it  is  clearly  that  which,  in  a  case  not  my  own,  I 
should  have  accepted  ;  and  yet  I  revolved  and  dismissed  it.  The 
moment  we  deal  with  things  beyond  our  comprehension)  and  in 
which  our  own  senses  are  appealed  to  and  baffled,  We  revolt  from 
the  Probable,  as  it  seems  to  the  senses  of  those  who  have  not  ex- 
perienced what  we  have.  And  the  same  Principle  of  Wonder 
that  led  our  philosophy  up  from  inert  ignorance  into  restless  knowl- 
edge, now  winding  back  into  Shadow-land  reverses  its  rule  by  the 
way,  and,  at  last,  leaves  us  lost  in  the  maze,  our  ltnowlet  ge  inert, 
and  our  ignorance  restless. 

And  putting  aside  all  other  reasons  for  hesitating  to  believe  that 
Margrave  was  the  sen  of  Louis  Grayle — reasons  which  his  own 
narrative  might  suggest — was  it  not  strange  that  Sir  Philip  Der- 
val,  who  had  instituted  inquiries  so  minute,  and  reported  them  in 
his  memoir  with  so  faithful  a  care,  should  not  have  discovered 
thai  a  youth,  attended  by  the  same  woman  who  had  attended 
Grayle,  had  disappeared  from  the  town  on  the  same  night  as 
Grayle  himself  disappeared  ?  But  Derval  had  related  truthfully, 
ding  to  Margrave's  account,  the  flight  of  Ayeslia  and  her 
Indian  servant,  yet  not  even  alluded  to  tlie  flight,  not  even  to  the 
existence  of  the  hoy,  who  must  have  been  of  no  mean  importl 
in  the  suite  of  Louis  Grayle,  i!  he  were,  indeed,  tin'  son  whom 
Grayle  had  made  his  constant  companion,  and  constituted  his 
principal  heir. 

Not  many  minutes  did  1  give  myself  up  to  the  cloud  of  reflec- 
tions through  which  no  sunbeam  of  light  forced  its  way.  <  hie 
thought  overmastered  all  s  Margrave  had  threatened  death  to  my 
Lilian,  and  warned  me  of  what  I  should  learn  from  the  lips  of 
r,  "the  sage  of  the  college."  I  stood,  shuddering,  at  the 
door  of  my  home;   I  did  not  dare  to  enter. 

•'  .Mien,"  said  a  voice,  in  which  my  ear  detected  an  unwonted 
tremulous   faltering,  "lie  firm — lie  calm.     I  keep  my  promise. — 
hour  is  come  in  which  you  may  again  see  the  Lilian  of  old — 
mind  to  mind,  soul  to  soul." 

Faher's  hand  took  mine,  and  led  me  into  the  house. 

"  You  do,  then,  tear  that  this  interview  will  he  too  much  for  her 
strength.'"  said  I,  wbisperingTy. 

"  I  cannot  say  ;  hut  she  demands  the  interview,  and  1  dare  not 
refuse  it." 


■ 


340  A    STRANGE    STORY, 


CHAPTER  LXXyill. 

I  left  Faber  on  the  stairs,  and  paused  at  the  door  of  Lilian's 
room.  The  door  opened  suddenly,  noiselessly,  and  her  mother 
came  out  with  one  hand  before  her  face  and  the  other  locked  in 
Amy's,  who  was  leading  her  as  a  child  leads  the  blind.  Mrs. 
Ashleigb  looked  up,  as  I  touched  her,  with  a  vacant,  dreary  stare. 
She  was  not  weeping,  as  was  her  womanly  wont  in  every  pettier 
grief,  but  Amy  was.  No  word  was  exchanged  between  us.  I  en- 
tered, and  closed  the  door  ;  my  eyes  turned  mechanically  to  ihe 
corner  in  which  was  placed  the  small  virgin  bed,  with  its  curtains 
white  as  a  shroud.  Lilian  was  not  there.  I  looked  round,  and 
saw  her  half-reclined  on  a  couch  near  the  window.  She  was 
dressed,  and  with  care.     Was  not  that  ber  bridal  robe  1 

"Allen — Allen,"  she  murmured.  "Again,  again  my  Allen — 
again,  again  your  Lilian!"  And,  striving  in  vain  to  vise,  she 
stretched  oul  her  arms  in  the  yearning  of  reunited  love.  And  as  1 
knelt  beside  her,  those  arms  closed  round  me  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  frank,  chaste,  holy  tenderness  of  a  wife's  embrace. 

'•  Ah  !"  she  said,  in  her  low  voice  (her  voice  like  Cordelia's  was 
ever  low),  "  all  has  come  back  to  me — all  that  I  owe  to  your  pro- 
tecting, noble,  trustful,  guardian  love  !  " 

"Hush!  hush  !  the  gratitude  rests  with  me — it  is  so  sweet  to 
love,  to  trust,  to  guard  ! — my  own,  my  beautiful,  still  my  beautiful ! 
Suffering  has  not  dimmed  the  light  of  those  dear  eyes  to  me.  Put 
your  lips  to  my  ear.  Whisper  but  these  words  :  '  I  love  you,  and 
tor  your  sake  I  wish  to  live  !  " 

"  For  your  sake  i  pray — with  my  whole* weak  human  heart — I 
pray  to  live.  Listen.  Some  days  hereafter,  if  I  am  spared,  under 
the  purple  blossoms  of  yonder  waving  trees,  I  shall  tell  you  all,  as 
I  see  it  now,  all  that  darkened  or  shone  on  me  in  my  long  dream, 
and  before  the  dream  closed  around  me,  like  a  night  in  which  cloud 
and  star  chase  each  other  !  Some  day  hereafter,  some  quiet,  sun- 
lit, happy,  happy  day.  But  now  all  I  would  say  is  this  :  Before 
that  dreadful  morning."  Here  she  paused,  shuddered,  and  pas- 
sionately burst  forth,  "  Allen,  Allen  !  you  did  not  believe  that  slan- 
derous letter  !  God  bless  yon  !  God  bless  you  !  Great-hearted, 
high-souled — God  bless  you,  my  darling  !  my  husband  !  And  He 
will.  Pray  to  Him  humbly  as  I  do,  and  He  will  bless  you."  She 
stooped  and  kissed  away  my  tears,  then  she  resumed,  feebly,  meek- 
ly sorrowfully  : 

"  Before  that  morning  I  was  not  worthy  of  such  a  heart,  such  a 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  341 

love  as  yours.  No,  no ;  hear  me.  Not  that  a  thought  of  love  for 
another  ever  crossed  me  !  Never,  when  conscious  and  reasoning, 
was  I  untrue  to  you — even  in  fancy.  But  I  was  a -child — wayward 
as  the  child  who  pines  for  what  earth  cannot  give,  and  covets  the 
moon  for  a  toy.  Heaven  had  been  so  kind  to  my  lot  on  earth,  and 
yet  with  my  lot  on  earth  1  was  secretly  discontented.  When  I 
felt  that  you  loved  me,  and  my  heart  told  me  that  I  loved  again,  1 
said  to  myself,  'Now  ihe  void  that  my  soul  finds  on  earth  will  he 
tilled.'  1  longed  for  your  coming,  ami  yet  when  you  went  1  mur- 
mured, '  Bat  is  this  the  ideal  of  Which  1  had  dreamed  V  I  asked 
for  an  impossible  sympathy.  Sympathy  with  what  ?  Nay,  smile 
on  me,  dearest! — sympathy  With  what;'  I  could  not  have  said. 
Ah  !  Allen,  then,  then  I  was  not  worthy  of  you,  infant  that  I  was, 
I  asked  you  to  understand  me.  Now  I  know  that  I  am  woman, 
and  my  task  is  to  study  you!  Dol  make  myself  clear  .'  do  you 
forgive  me?  1  was  not  untrue  to  you;  I  was  untrue  to  my  own 
duties  in  life.  1  believed,  in  my  vain  conceit,  that  a  mortal's  dim 
vision  of  heaven  raised  me  above  the  earth  ;  I  did  not  perceive  the 
truth  that  earth  is  a  part  of  the  same  universe  as  heaven  !  Now, 
perhaps  in  the  awful  affliction  that,  darkened  my  reason,  my  soul 
lias  been  made  more  clear  As  if  to  chastise  but  to  teach  me,  my 
soul  has  been  permitted  to  indulge  its  own  presumptuous  desire  ;  h 
has  wandered  forth  from  the  trammels  of  mortal  duties  ami 
tiniesj  it  comes  back,  alarmed  by  the  dangers  of  its  own  rash  and 
presumptuous  escape  from  the  tasks  which  it  should  desire  on  earth 
irform.  .Mien,  Allen,  I  am  less  unworthy  of  you  now  !  Per- 
haps in  my  darkness  one  rapid  glimpse  of  the  true  world  of  spirit 
has  been  vouchsafed  to  me.  If  so,  how  unlike  to  the  visions  mj 
childhood  indulged  as  divine!  Now,  while  I  know  still  more  deep- 
ly that  there  is  a  world  for  the  angels,  I  know  also  that  the  mortal 
must  pasS  through  probation  in  the  world  of  mortals.  Oh,  may  I 
oass  through  it  with  you — grieving  in  your  griefs,  rejoicing  in  your 
joys!" 

Here  language  failed  her.     Again  the  dear  arms  embraced  me, 
and  the  dear  face,  eloquent  with  love,  hid  itself  on  my  human  breast. 


CHAPTER  LXX1X. 

That  interview  is  over!  Again  I  am  banished  from  Lilian's 
room  ;  the  agitation,  the  joy  of  that  meeting  has  overstrained  her 
enfeebled  nerves.  Convulsive  tremblings  of  the  whole  frame,  ac- 
companied with  vehement  sobs,  succeeded  our  brief  interchange  of 
sweet   and  bitter  thoughts.     Faber,  in  tearing  me  from  her  side, 


342  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

i 

imperiously  and  sternly  warned  me  that  the  sole  chance  yet  left  of 
preserving  her  life  was  in  the  merciful  suspense  of  the  emotions 
that  my  presence  excited.  He  and  Amy  resumed  their  place  in 
her  chamber.  Even  her  mother  shared  my  sentence  of  banishment. 
So  Mrs.  Ashleigh  and  I  sat  facing  each  other  in  the  room  helow ; 
over  me  a  leaden  stupor  had  fallen,  and  I  heard,  as  a  voice  from 
afar  or  in  a  dream,  the  mother's  murmured  wailings, 

"  She  will  die — she  will  die  !  Her  eyes  have  the  same  heavenly 
look  as  my  Gilbert's  on  the  day  on  which  his  closed  forever.  Her 
very  words  are  his  last  words — '  Forgive  me  all  my  faults  to  you.' 
She  will  die — she  will  die !  " 

Hours  thus  passed  away.  At  length  Faber  entered  the  room  ; 
he  spoke  first  to  Mrs.  Ashleigh — meaningless  soothings,  familiar  to 
the  lips  of  all  who  pass  from  the  chamber  of  the  dying  to  the  pre- 
sence of  mourners,  and  know  that  it  is  a  falsehood  to  say  "hope," 
and  a  mockery,  as  yet,  bo  say  "endure." 

But  he  led  her  away  to  her  own  room  docile  as  a  wearied  child 
led  to  sleep,  stayed  with  her  some  time,  and  then  returned  to  me, 
pressing  me  to  his  breast,  iatherdike. 

"  No  hope — no  hope  ! "  said  1,  recoiling  from  Ids  embrace.  "  You 
are  silent.     Speak  !  speak!     Let  me  know  the  worst" 

"  I  have  a  hope,  yet  1  scarcely  dare  to  bid  you  share  it,  for  it 
grows  rather  out  of  my  heart  as  man  than  my  experience  as  physi- 
cian.    I  cannot  think  that  her  soul  would  be  now  .so  reconciled  fco 
earth — so  fondly,  so  earnestly  cling  to  this  mortal  life — if  it 
about  to  lie  summoned  away.     You  know  how  commonly  even  the 
sufferers   who  have   dreaded  Death   the  most   become  caiml;, 
signed  to  its  coming,  when  Death  visibly  reveals  itself  out  from 
shadows  in  winch  its  shape  has  been  guessed  and  not  seen.    -As  it 
is  a  bad  sign  for  life  when  the  patient  has  lost  all  will  to  live  on,  so 
there  is  hope  while  the  patient  yet  young  and  with  no  perceptible 
breach  h;  the  great  centres  of  life  (however  violently  their  forts 
may  be  stormed),  has  still  intense  faith  in  recovery,  perhaps  drawn 
(who  can  say?)  from  the  whispers  conveyed  from   above  to  the 
soul. 

"  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  that  all  the  uses  for  which  a 
reason,  always  so  lovely  even  in  its  errors,  has  been  restored,  are 
yet  fulfilled.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  your  union,  as  yet  so  imperfect, 
has  still  for  its  end  that  holy  life  on  earth  by  which  two  mortal 
beidgs  strengthen  each  other  for  a  sphere  of  existence  to  which 
this  is  the  spiritual  ladder.  Through  yourself  I  have  hope  yet  for 
her.  Gifted  with  powers  that  rank  you  high  in  the  manifold 
orders  of  man — thoughtful,  laborious,  and  brave;  with  a  heart  that 
makes  intellect  vibrate  to  every  fine  touch  of  humanity ;  in  error 
itself  conscientious,  in  delusions  still  eager  for  truth ;  in  anger, 
forgiving;  in  wrong,  seeking  how  to  repair;  and  best  of  all,  strong 
in  a  love  which  the  mean  would  have  shrunk  to  defend  from  the 
fangs  of  the  slanderer — a  love,  raising    passion  itself  out  of  the 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  :Wo 

realm  of  the.  senses,  made  sublime  by  the  sorrows  that  tried  its 
devotion;  with  allthese  noble  proofs  in  yourself  of  a  being  not 
meant  toi'iul  here — your  life  has  stopped  short  in  its  uses,  your 
mind  itself  has  been  drifted,  a  hark  without  rudder  or  pilot, 
oyer  seas  without  shores,  under  skies  without  siars.  And  where- 
fore? Because  the  Mind  you  so  .haughtily  vaunted  has  refused  its 
companion  and  teacher  in  Soul. 

"And  therefore,  through  you,  I  hope  that  she  will  be  spared  yel 
to  live  on.  She,  in  whom  soul  has  been  led  dimly  astray,  by  un- 
heeding the  cheeks  and  the  definite  goals  which  the  mind  is  or- 
dained to  prescribe  to  its  wanderings  while  here;  the  mind  taking 
thoughts  from  the  actual  and  visible  world,  and  the  soul  but  v 
glimpses  and  hints  from  the  instinct  ^i'  its  ultimate  heritage.  Each 
of  you  two  seems  to  me  as  yet  incomplete,  and  your  destinies  yet 
uncompleted.  Through  the  bonds  of  the  heart,  through  the  trials 
of  lime,  ye  have  both  to  consummate  your  marriage.  I  do  not  — 
believe  me — I  do  not  say  this  in  the  fanciful  wisdom  of  allegory 
and  type,  save  that,  wherever  deeply  examined,  allegory  and 
run  through  all  the,  most  commonplace  phases  of  outward  and 
material  life.  I  hope,  then,  that  she  may  yet  be  spared  to  you — 
hope  it,  not  from  my  skill  as  a  physician,  but  my  inward  belief  as 
a  Christian.  To  perfect  your  own  being  ami  end,  each  <>/  n<>" 
has  need  of  the  other  !  " 

I  started — the  very  words  that  Lilian  had  heard  in   her  vision! 

-  But,"  resumed  Faber,  "  how  can  1  presume  to  trace  the  num- 
berless links  of  effects  up  to  the  First  Cause,  far  off — oh,  far  off — 
out  o(  the  scope  of  my  reason.  L  leave  that  to  philosophers, 
who  would  laugh  my   meek  hope  to  scorn. 

•■  Possibly,  probably,  where  1,  whose  calling- lias  been  but  to  save 
flesh  from  the  worm,  deem  that  the  life  of  your  Lilian  is  needed 
yet.  lo  develop  and  train  your  own  convictions  of  soul;  Heaven  in 
its  wisdom  may  see  that  her  death  would  instruct  you  far  more  than 
her  life.  1  have  said:  lie  prepared  for  either;  wisdom  through 
joy.  or  wisdom  through  grief.  Enough  that,  looking  only  through 
the  mechanism  by  winch  this  moral  world  is  impelled  and  im- 
proved, you  know  that  cruelty  is  impossible  to  wisdom.  Even  a 
man,  or  man's  law,  is  never  wise  but  when  it  is  merciful.  But 
mercy  has  general  conditions;  and  that  which  is  mercy  to  the 
myriads  may  seem  hard  to  the  one;  and  that  which  seems  hard  to 
the  one  in  the  pang  of  a  moment  may  be  mercy  when  viewed  by 
the  eye  that  looks  on  through  eternity." 

And  from  all  tins  discourse — of  which  I  now,  ai  calm  distance 
of  time,  recall   every  word — my   human,  loving  heart    bore   away 

16  moment  but  this  sentence,  "  Each  has  need  of  the  oth< 
so  (hat  i  cried  out,  "  Life,  life,  life  !      Is  there  no  hope  for  her  life  ? 
i  you  no    hope    as    physician  J     I  am  physician  too;   i    will 
see.  her.     1  will  judge.      1  will  not  be  banished  from  my  p. 

"Judge  then, as  physician,  and  let  the  responsibility  rest   with 


3  Jr 4  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

you.  At  this  moment  all  convulsions,  all  struggle  has  ceased,  the 
frame  is  at  rest.  Look  on  her,  and  perhaps  only  the  physician's 
eye  could  distinguish  her  state  from  death.  It  is  not  $leep,  it-  is 
not  trance,  it  is  not  the  dooming  coma  from  which  there  is  no 
awaking.  Shall  I  call  it  by  the  name  received  in  our  schools'? 
Is  it  the  catalepsy  in  which  life  is  suspended,  but  consciousness 
acute  ?  She  is  motionless,  rigid  ;  it  is  but  with  a  strain  of  my  own 
sense  that  I  know  that  the  breath  still  breathes,  and  the  heart  still 
beats.  But  I  am  convinced  that  though  she  can  neither  speak  nor 
stir,  nor  give  sign,,  that  she  is  fully,  sensitively  conscious  of  all 
that  passes  around  her.  She  is  like  those  who  have  seen  the  very 
coffin  carried  into  their  chamber,  and  been  unable  to  cry  out '  Do 
not  bury  me  alive!  '  Judge  then  for  yourself,  with  this  intense, 
consciousness  and  this  impotency  to  evince  it,  what  might  be  the 
effect  of  your  presence — first  an  agony  of  despair,  and  then  the 
complete  extinction  of  life  !  " 

"  I  have  known  but  one  such  case  A  mother  whose  heart  was 
wrapped  up  in  a  suffering  infant.  She  had  lain  for  two  days  and 
two  nights,  still,  as  if  in  her  shroud.  All,  save  myself,  said, 
'Life  is  gone.'  I  said,  '  Life  still  is  there.'  They  brought  in  the 
infant,  to  try  what  effect  its  presence  would  produce  ;  then  her  lips 
moved,  and  the  hands  crossed  upon  her  hosom  trembled." 

"  And  the  result '{  "  exclaimed  Faber,  eagerly.  "  If  the  result 
of  your  experience  sanction  your  presence,  come  ;  the  sight  of  the 
babe  rekindled  life  1  " 

"No;  extinguished  its  last  spark!  I  will  not  enter  Lilian's 
room.  1  will  go  away — away  from  the  house  itself.  That  acute 
consciousness  !  I  know  it  well  !  She  may  even  hear  me  move  in 
the  room  below,  hear  me  speak  at  this  moment.  (r<>  back  to  her, 
go  back  !  But  if  hers  be  the  state  which  I  have  known  in  another, 
which  may  be  yet  more  familiar  to  persons  of  far  ampler  ex- 
perience than  mine,  there  is  no  immediate  danger  of  death. 
The  state  will  last  through  to-day,  through  to-night ;  perhaps  for 
days  to  come.     Is  it  so  1 " 

"  I  believe  that  for  at  least  twelve  hours  there  will  be  no  change 
in  her  state.  I  believe  also  that  if  she  recover  from  it  calm  and 
refreshed,  as  from  a  sleep,  the  danger  of  death  will  have  passed 
away." 

"  And  for  twelve  hours  my  presence  would  be  hurtful  1  " 

"  Rather  say  fatal,  if  my  diagnosis  be  right." 

I  wrung  my  friend's  hand,  and  we  parted. 

"  Oh,  to  lose  her  now  ! — now  that  her  love  and  her  reason  had 
both  returned,  each  more  vivid  than  before  !  Futile,  indeed,  might 
be  Margrave's  boasted  secret ;  but  at  least  in  that  secret  was  hope. 
In  recognized  science  I  saw  only  despair. 

And  at  that  thought  all  dread  of  this  mysterious  visitor  vanished — 
all  anxiety  to  question  more  of  his  attributes  or  his  history.  His 
life  itself  became  to  me  dear  and  precious.     What  if  it  should  fail 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  345 

me  in  the  slops  of  the  process,  Whatever  that  was,  by  which  the 
Kfe  of  my  Lilian  might  in'  saved  ! 

The  shades  of  the  eveniDg  were  now  closing  in.  I  Cemembered 
that  I  bad  left  Margrave  wit  limit  even  food  for  many  hours.  I 
stole  round  to  the  back  of  the  bouse,  filled  a  basket  with  afiments, 

more  generous  than  those  01  the  former  day  ;  extracted  fresh  dl 
from  my  stores,  and,  thus  laden,  hurried  hack  to  the  hut.  i  found 
Margrave  in-the  room  below,  seated  on  his  mysterious  coffer,  lean- 
ing iiis  face  on  his  hand.  When  I  entered,  he  looked  up  and  said: 
"You  have  neglected  me.  My  strength  is  waning.  (Jive  me 
more  of  the  cordial,  for  we  have  work  before  us  to-night,  and  I 
need  support." 

He  took  f6r  granted  my  assent  to  his  wild  experiment ::  and  he 
was  right. 

1  administered  the  cordial.     I  placed  food  before  him,  and 
he  did  not  eat  with  repugnance.    I  poured  out  wine,  and  he 
'.  it   sparingly,  but  with   ready  compliance,  saying,  "  [n 
feet  health  I  looked  upon  wine  as   poison,  now  it  is  like  ; 
of  the  glorious  eli- 

Fter  be  had  thus  recruited  himsel  -  mod  to  acquire  an 

energy  thai  startlingly  contrasted  his  languor  the  day  before;  the 
efforl  of  breathing  Was  scarcely  perceptible;  the  color  came  I 
to  his  cheeks  ;    his  bended  frame  rose  elastic  and  erect. 

."  If  I  understood  you  rightly,"  said   1,  "the  experiment  you 
ask  me  to  aid  can  be  accomplished  in  a  single  night  ?" 
"  In  a  single  night — this  night  !  " 
•■  Command  me.     Why  nut  begin  at  once;     Whaf 
chemical  agencies  do  yen  need  ? " 

"  Ah,"  said  Margrave ;  "formerly,  how  I  was  mis!  iwr- 

ly,  how  my  conjectures  blundered  !      I  thought,  when  1   asked 

.e  a  month  to  the  experiment  I  wished  to  make,  that  I  should 
need  the  subtlesl  skill  of  the  chemist.     I  then  believed,  with 
Helmont,  that  the  principle  of  life  is  a  gas,  and  that  the  seprei  was 
but  in  the  mode  by  which  the   gas   might    bo  rightly  administered, 
now   ali   that     I    need    is    contained  in  this  coffer,  save  one 
simple  material — fuel  sufficient  for  a  steady  fin'  for   six  hours.      I 
■  ven  that  is  al  hand,  piled  up  in  your  outhouse.     And  now  for 
substance  itself — to  that  you  must  guide  me." 
splain." 
''Near  this  very  spot  is  there  not  gold — in  mines  yet  undiscover- 
ed I — and  gold  of  the  purest  metal  .'  " 

"There  is.  What  then?  Do  you,  with  the  alchemists,  blend 
in  one  discovery — gold  and  lb' 

"No.     Bu1   it   I-  only  where  tl  try  of  earth  or  of  man 

res  gold  that  the  substance  from  which  the  great  pabulu 
life,  extracted  by  ferment,  is  found.      ;  >u    the  a;: 

thai  transmutation  of  metals,  which  I  think  your  ov.  chem- 

ist — sir  Humphrey  Davy — allowed  mi  ssible,  but  held  to 


346  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

be  not  worth  the  cost  of  the  process — possibly,  in  those  attempts, 
some  scanty  grains  of  this  substance  were  found  by  the  alchemist 
in  the  crucible,  with  grains  of  the  metal  as  niggardly  yielded  by 
pitiful  mimicry  of  Nature's  stupendous  laboratory  ;  and  from  such 
grains  enough  of  the  essence  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
drawn  forth  to  add  a  few  years  of  existence  to  some  feeble 
graybeard — granting,  what  rests  on  no  proofs,  that  some  of  the 
alchemist^  reached  an  age-rarely  given  to  man.  But  it  is  not  in 
the  miserly  crucible,  it  is  in  the  matrix  of  Nature  herself  that  we 
must  seek  in  prolific  abundance  Nature's-grand  principle — life.  As 
the  loadstone  is  rife  with  the  magnetic  virtue,  as  amber  contains 
the  electric,  so  in  this  substance,  to  which  we  yet  want  a  name,  is 
found  the  bright  life-giving  fluid.  In  the  old  gold  mines  of  Asia 
and  Europe  the  substance  exists,  but  can  rarely  be  met  with.  The 
soil  for  its  nutriment  may  there  be  well-nigh  exhausted.  It  is  here, 
where  Nature  herself  is  all  vital  with  youth,  that  the  nutriment  of 
youth  must  be  sought.     Near  this  spot  is  gold — guide  me  to  it." 

"  You  cannot  come  witb  me.  The  place  which  I  know  as  aurifer- 
ous is  some  miles  distant ;  the  way  rugged.  You  cannot  walk  to 
it.     It  is  true  I  have  horses,  but " 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  come  this  distance,  and  not  foreseen  and 
forestalled  all  that  I  want  for  my  object?  Trouble  yourself  not 
with  conjectures  how  I  can  arrive  at  the  place.  I  have  provided 
the  means  to  arrive  at,  and  leave  it.  My  litter  and  its  bearers  are 
in  reach  of  my  call.  Give  me  your  arm  to  the  rising  ground  fifty 
yards  from  your  door/' 

I  obeyed  mechanically;,  stifling  all  surprise.  I  had  made  my  re- 
solve, and  admitted  no  thought  that  could  shake  it. 

When  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  grassy  hillock,  which  sloped 
from  the  road  that  led  to  the  sea-port,  .Margrave,  after  pausing  to 
recover  breath,  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  key  not  loud,  but  shrill  and 
slow  and  prolonged,  half  cry,  and  half  chant,  like  the  night-hawk's. 
Through  that  air,  so  limpid  and  still,  bringing  near  far  objects,  far 
sounds,  the  voice  pierced  its  way,  artfully  pausing,  till  wave  after 
wave  of  the  atmosphere  bore  and  transmitted  it  on. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  call  seemed  reechoed,  so  exactly,  so  cheeri- 
ly, that  for  the  moment  I  thought  that  the  note  was  the  mimicry 
of  the  shy  mocking  Lyre-Bird,  which  mimics  so  merrily  all  that  it 
hears  in  the  coverts,  from  the  whirr  of  the  locust  to  the  howl  of 
the  wild  dog. 

"  What  king,"  said  the  mystic  charmer,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
carelessly  rested  hits  hand  on  my  shoulder,  so  that  I  trembled  to 
feel  that  this  dread  son  of  Nature,  Godless  and  soulless,  who  had 
been — and  my  heart  whispered,  who  still  could  be — my  bane  and 
mind-darkener,  leaned  upon  me  for  support,  as  the  spoiled  younger 
born  on  his  brother — "  what  king,"  said  this  cynical  mocker,  with 
his  beautiful  boyish  face — "what king  in  your  civilized  Europe  has 
way  of  a  chief  of  the  East  1     What  link  is  so  strong  between 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  347 

l 

nmrta!  and  mortal  as  that,  between  lord  and  slave?     I  trans 
yon  poor  fools  from  the  land  of  their  bir  preserve  here  their 

old  habits — obedience  and  awe.  They  would  wait  till  they  starved 
in  the  solitude — wait  to  hearken  and  answer  my  call.  And  I,  who 
thus  rule  them  or  charm  l  hem — 1  use  and  despise  them.  They  know 
and  yel  serve  me!  Between  you  and  me,  my  philosopher, 
there  is  but  one  thing  worth  living  for — life  for  one's  self." 

Is  it.  age,ia  it  youth,  that  thus  shocks  all  my  sense,  in  my  solemn 
leieness  of  mail  I  -i   of 

pleasure  will  answer,  "  it  is  youth  ;  and  we  think  what  1; 
Young  friends,  I  do  not  believe  you. 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

Along  the  grass  track  I  saw  now,  under  the  moon,  just   risen, 
a  strange  procession — never  seen  before  in  Australian  pastures. — 
It  moved  mi.  noiselessly  but  quickly.     We  descended  the  hill 
and  met,  it  mi  the  way.     A  sable  litter,  borne  by  four  men,  in  un- 
familiar Eastern  garments;  two  other  swarthy  servitors, 
bravely  dressed,  yataghans  and  silverdnlted  pistols  in  their  belts, 
preceding  this  sombre  equipage      Perhaps  Margrave  divined 
disdainful  thought  that  passed  through  my  mind,  vaguely  and  ha  f- 
consciously  :   for  he  said,  with   the  hollow,  bitter  laugh   that  had 
replaced  the  lively  peal  of  bis  once  melodious  mirth  : 

V  little  leisure  and  a  little  gold, .and  your  raw  colonist,  too. 
Will  have  the  !:: 

1  niad"  i  .-.      I  had  ceased  to  care  who  and  what  was  my 

tempter.      To  me  his  whole  being  was  resolved  into  one  problem. 
Had  he  a  secret  by  which  Death  could  be  turned  from  Lilian  ? 

But  now.  as  the  litter  halted,  from  the  long  dark  shadow  which 
if   cast:  upon  the  tut   ,  /are  of  a  wo;:.  :  ■(].   ami  stood 

before  us.     The  outlines  ^i'  ber  shape  were  losl  in  I  folds 

of  a  black  mantle,  and  the  features  of  her  face  were  hidden  by  a 
black  veil,  except  only  tlie  dark,  bright.-  ■    es.     Her 

ture  was  lofty,  her  bearing  majestic,  whether  in  movement   or  re- 
pose. 

Margrave  accosted  her  in  some  language  unknown  to  me.  She 
replied  in  what  seemed  to  my  ear  the  same  tongue.  Th< 
her  voice  were  sweei  but  inexpressibly  mournful.  The  words  that 
they  uttered  appeared  intended  to  warn,  or  deprecate,  or  dissuade, 
for  they  called  to  Margrave's  brow  a  lowering  frown,  and  drew 
from  his  lips  a  burst  of  unmistakable  anger.  The  woman  rejoined, 
in  the  same  melancholy  music  of  voice.  And  Margri  i 
leaning  his  arm   upon  her  shoulder,  as   he  had  leaned  it  on   mine. 


348  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

I 

drew  her  away  from  the  group  into  a  neighboring  copse  of  the 
flowering  eucalypti — mystic  trees,  never  changing  in  the  hues  of 
their  pale  green  leaves,  ever  shifting  the  tints  of  their  ash-gray, 
shedding  bark.  For  some  moments  I  gazed  on  the  two  human 
forms,  dimly  seen  by  the  glinting  moonlight  through  the  gaps  in 
the  fuliage.  Then,  turning  away  my  eyes,  I  saw,  standing  close 
at  my  side,  a  man  whom  1  had  not  noticed  before.  His  footstep, 
as  it  stole  to  me,  had  fallen  on  the  sward  without  sound.  His 
dress,  though  Oriental,  differed  from  that  of  his  companions,  both 
in  shape  and  color;  fitting  close  to  the  breast,  leaving  the  arms 
hare  to  the  elbow,  and  of  a  uniform,  ghastly  white,  as  are  the  cere- 
ments of  the  grave.  His  visage  was  even  darker  than  those  of 
the  Syrians  or  Arabs  behind  him,  and  his  features  were  those  of  a 
bird  of  prey — the  beak  of  the  eagle,  but  the  eye  of  the  vulture. 
His  cheeks  were  hollow;  the  arms,  crossed  on  his  breast,  were 
long  and  fleshless.  Yet  in  that  skeleton  form  there  was  a  some- 
thing which  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  serpent's  suppleness  and 
strength  ;  and  as  the  hungry,  watchful  eyes  met  my  own  startled 
gaze,  I  recoiled  impulsively  with  that  inward  warning  of  danger 
.which  is  conveyed  to  man,  as  to  inferior  animals,  in  the  very  as-' 
of  the  creatures  that  sting  or  devour.  At,  my  movement  the 
man  inclined  his  head  in  the  submissive  Eastern  salutation,  and 
spoke  in  his  foreign  tongue,  softly,  humbly,  fawningly,  to  judge 
by  his  tone  and  his  gesture. 

I  moved  yet  further  away  from  him  with  loathing,  and  now  the 
human  thought  flashed  upon  me  :  was,  I  iu  truth  exposed  to  no 
danger  in  trusting  myself  to  the  mercy  of  the  weird  and  remorse- 
less master  of  those  hirelings  from  the  East  1 — ^even  men  in  num- 
ber, two  at  least  oi*  them  formidably  armed,  and  docile  as  blood- 
hounds to  the  hunter,  who  has  only  to  show  them  their  prey.  But 
fear  of  man  like  myself  is  not  ray  weakness ;  where  fear  found  its 
way  to  my  heart  it  was  through  the  doubts  or  the  fancies  in  which 
man  like  myself  disappeared  in  the  attributes,  dark  and  unknown, 
which  we  give  to  a  tiend  or  a  spectre.  And  perhaps,  if  I  could 
have  paused  to  analyze  my  own  sensations,  the  very  presence  of 
this  escort — creatures  of  flesh  and  blood — lessened  the  dread  of 
my  incomprehensible  tempter.  Rather,  a  hundred  times,  front 
and  defy  those  seven  Eastern  slav.es — I,  haughty  son,  of  the  An- 
glo-Saxon who  conquers  all  races  because  he  fears  no  odds — than 
have  seen  again  on  the  walls  of  my  threshold  the  luminous,  bodi- 
less Shadow  !  Besides,  Lilian — Liliau  !  for  one  chance  of  saving 
her  life,  however  wild  and  chimerical  that  chance  might  be,  I 
would  have  shrunk  not  a  foot  from  the  march  of  an  army. 

Thus  reassured  and  thus  resolved,  I  advanced,  with  a  smile  of 
disdain,  to  meet  Margrave  and  his  veiled  companion,  as  they  now 
came  from  the  moonlit  copse. 

"  Well,"  I  said  to  him,  with  an  irony  that  unconsciously  mini- 


A   STRANGE    STORY.  349 

icked  his  own,  "  have  you  taken  advice  with  your  nurse  ?  I  as- 
sume that  the  dark  form  by  your  side  is  that  of  Ay  est)  a  !" 

The  woman  looked  at  me  from  ber  sable  veil,  with  her  stead- 
fast, solemn  eyes,  and  said,  in  English,  though  with  a  foreign  ac- 
cent, "  Tbe  nurse,  horn  in  Asia,  is  but  wise  through  her  love  ;  (lie 
pale  son  of  Europe  is  wise  through  his  art.  The  nurse  says. 
'  Forbear  !'     Do  you  say  '  Adventure  V  " 

"  Peace  !"  exclaimed  Margrave,  stamping  his  fool,  on  (lie 
ground,  "  I  take  no  counsel  from  either  :  it  is  for  me  to  resolve, 
for  you  to  obey,  and  for  him  to  aid.  Night  is  come,  and  we  waste 
if;  move  on." 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  nor  did  I.  He  took  my  arm  and 
walked  back  to  the  hut.  Tbe  barbaric  escort  followed.  When 
we  reached  the  doer  of  the  building  Margrave  said  a  few  words  to 
the  woman  and  to  the  litter-bearers.  Tbey  entered  the  hut  with 
us.  Margrave  pointed  out  to  the  woman  his  coffer  ;  to  the  men, 
the  fuel  stowed  in  the  outhouse.  Bath  were  borne  away  and 
placed  within  the  litter.  Meanwhile  I  took  from  the  table  on 
which  it  was  carelessly  thrown,  the  light  hatchet  that  I  habitually 
carried  with  me  in  my  rambles. 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  need  that  idle  weapon  1"  said  Mar- 
grave. "  Do  you  fear  the  good  faith  of  my  swarthy  attendants  ?" 
•  ••  Nay,  take  the  hatchet  yourself ;  its  use  is  to  sever  the  gold 
from  the  quartz  in  which  we  may  find  it  embedded,  or  to  clear,  as 
this  shovel,  which  will  also  be  needed,  from  the  slight  soil  above 
it  the  ore  that  the  mine' in  the  mountain  flings  forth,  as  the  sea 
casts  its  waifs  on  Ike  sands.'' 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  fellow-laborer  !"  said  Margrave,  joy- 
fully, "Ah,  there  is  no  faltering  terror  in  this  pulse.  1  was  not 
mistaken  in  the  Man.  What  rests  but  the  Place  and  the  Hour  I — 
1  shall  live — I  shall  live  !" 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

Margrave  now  entered  the  litter,  and  tbe  Veiled  Woman  drew 
the  black  curtains  round  him.  1  walked  on,  as  the  guide,  some 
yards  in  advance.  The  air  was  still,  heavy,  and  parched  with  the 
breath  of  the  Australasian  sir 

We  passed  through  the  meadow-lands  studded  with  slumbering 
flocks;  we  followed  the  branch  of  the  creek  which  was  linked  to 
its  source  in  the  mountains  by  many  a  trickling  waterfall  ;  we 
threaded  the  gloom  of  stunted,  misshapen  trees, gnarled  with  the 
stringy  bark  which  makes  one  of  the  signs  of  the  strata  that 
nourish  gold  ;  and  at  length  the   moon,  now  in  all  her  pomp  of 


350  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

light,  mid-heaven  among  her  subject  stars,  gleamed  through  the 
fissures  of  the  cave,  on  whose  floor  lay  the  relics  of  antediluvian 
races,  and  rested  in  one  flood  of  silvery  splendor  upon  the  hollows 
of  the  extinct,  volcano,  with  tufts  of  dank  herbage  and  wide  spaces 
of  paler  sward  covering  the  gold  below — Gold,  the  dumb  symbol 
of  organized  Matter's  areat  mystery,  storing  in  itself,  according  as 
Mind,  the  informer  of  Matter,  can  distinguish  its  uses,  evil  and 
good,  bane  and  blessing. 

Hitherto  the  Veiled  Woman  had  remained  in  the  rear,  with  the 
white-robed,  skelei on-like  image  that  had  crept  to  my  side  una- 
wares,  will,  its  noiseless  step.  Thus,  in  each  winding  turn  of  the 
•ulr  path  at  which  the  convoy,  following  behind  me,  came  into 
sight,  I  had  seen  first  the  two  gayly-dressed  armed  men,  next  the 
k  bier- ike  litter,  and  last  the  Black-veiled  Woman  and  the 
White-robed  Skeleton. 

But  now,  as  I  halted  on  the  table-land,  backed  by  the  mountain 
and  fronting  the  valley,  the  woman  left  her  companion,  passed  by 
the  litter  and  the  armed  men,  and  paused  by  my  side,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  moonlit  cavern. 

re  for  a  moment  she  stood,  silent,  the  procession  below 
mounting  upward  laboriously  and  slow  5  then  she  turned  to  me, 
and  her  veil  was  withdrawn. 

The  face  on  which  I  gazed  was  woudrously  beautiful,  and  se- 
verely awful.  There  was  neither  youth  nor  age — a  beauty  mature 
and  majestic  as  that  of  a  marble  Demeter. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  that  which  you  seek  V  she  asked,  in  her 
foreign,  melodious,  melancholy  accents. 

"  I  have  no  belief,"  was  my  answer.  "True  science  has  none. 
True  science  questions  all  things,  takes  nothing  upon  credit.  It 
knows  but .three  states  of  mind — Denial,  Conviction,  and  that  vast 
interval  between  the  two  which  is  not  belief,  but  suspense  of  judg- 

■  r  " 

The  woman  let  fall  her  veil,  moved  from  me,  and  seated  herself 
on  a  crag  above  that  cleft  between  mountain  and  creek,  to  which, 
when  I  had  first  discovered  the  gold  that  the  land  nourished,  the 
rain  from  the  clouds  had  given  the  rushing  life  of  the  cataract, 
but  which  now,  in  the  drought  and  hush  of  the  skies,  was  but  a 
dead  pile  of  stones. 

The  litter  now  ascended  the  height;  its  bearers  halted  ;  a  lean 
hand  tore  the  curtains  aside,  and  Margrave  descended,  leaning, 
this  time,  not  on  the  black-veiled  woman,  but  on  the  white-robed 
skeleton. 

There,  as  he  stood,  the  moon  shone  full  on  his  wasted  form ;  on 
his  face,  resolute,  cheerful,  and  proud,  despite  its  hollowed  outlines 
and  sicklied  hues.  He  raised  his  head,  spoke  in  the  language  un- 
known to  me,  and  the  armed  men  and  the  litter-bearers  grouped 
round  him,  bending  low.  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  The 
Veiled  Woman  rose  slowly  and  came  to  his  side,  motioning  away 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  351 

with  a  mute  sign  the  ghastly  form  on  which  he  leaned,  and  passing 
round  him    silently   instead   her  own  sustaining  arm.     Mar 
spoke  again  a  few  sentences,  of  which   1   could  not  even  guess  the 
meaning.     When  he  had  conducted,  the  armed  men  and  the  litter- 
bearers  came  newer  to  his  feet,  knelt  down,  and  kissed  his  hand. 
They  then  ruse  and  look  from  the  bier-like  vehicle   the  C 
the  fuel.     This  done,  they  lifted  again  the  litter,  and  again,  p] 
ded  by  the  armed  men,  the  procession  descended  down  the  slop- 
ing hill-side  down  into  the  valley  below. 

Margrave  now  whispered  for  some  moments  Into  the  ear  of  the 
hideous  creature  who  bad  made  way  for  the  Veiled  Woman.  The 
grim  skeleton  bowed  his  head  submissively,  and  strode  noiselessly 
away  through  the  long  grasses;  the  slender  stems,  trampled  under 
ids  stealthy  feet,  relifling  themselves,  as  after  a  passing  wind. — 
And  thus  lie  too  sank  out  of  sight  down  into  the  valley  below.  On 
the  table-land  of  the  hill  remained  only  we  three — Margrave,  my- 
self, and  the  Veiled  Woman. 

She  had  reseated  herself  apart,  on  the  gray  crag  above  the  dried 
torrent,  lie  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  cavern  round  the  sides 
of  which  clustered  parasital  plants,  withfiowersof  all  colors,  i 
among  them  opening  their  petals  and  exhaling  their  fragrance  only 
in  the  hours  of  night  ;  so  that,  as  his  form  tilled  up  the  jaws  of  the 
dull  arch,  obscuring  the  moonbeam  that  strove  to  pieroe  the  shad- 
ows that  slept  within,  it  stood  now — wan  and  blighted — as  I  had 
seen  it  first,  radiant  and  joyous,  >•  literally  framed  in  blooms." 


CHAPTER  LXXX1I. 

••  So,"  said  Margrave,  turning  to  me,  "under  the  soil  that  spreads 
around  us  lies  the  gold,  which  to  you  and  tome  is  at  this  moment 
of  no  value,  except  as  a  guide  to  its  twin-horn — the  regenerator  of 
life  !  •' 

"You  have  not  yet  described  to  me  the  nature  of  the  substance 
which  we  are  to  explore,  nor  of  the  process  by  which  the  virtues 
you  impute  to  it  are  i(»  he  extracted." 

"Let  us  first  find  the  gold,  and  instead  of  describing  the  life- 
amber,  so  let  me  call  it,  I  will  point  it  out  to  your  own  eyes.  As 
to  the  process,  your  share  in  it  is  so  simple,  that  you  will  ask  me 
why  I  seek  aid  from  a  chemist.  The  life-amber,  when  found,  has 
but  to  be  subjected  to  heat  and  fermentation  for  six  hours  ;  it  will 
be  placed  in  a  small  caldron  which  that  culler  contains,  over  the  lire 
which  that  fuel  will  i'cvA.    To  give  effect  to  the  process,  certain 


352  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

alkalis  and  other  ingredients  are  required.  But  these  are  prepared, 
and  mine  is  the  task  to  commingle  them.  From  your  science  as  a 
chemist  I  need  and  ask  naught.  In  you  I  have  sought  only  the 
aid  of  a  man." 

"  If  that  be  so,  why,  indeed,  seek  me  at  all  1  why  not.  confide  in 
those  swarthy  attendants  who  doubtless  are  slaves  to  your  orders  1 " 

"Con fide  in  slaves!  when  the  first  task  enjoined  to  them  would 
be  to  discover,  and  refrain  from  prolonging  gold.  Seven  such  un- 
scrupulous* knaves,  or  even  one  such,  and  I  thus  defenceless  and 
le  !  Such  is  not  the  work  that  wise  masters  confide?  to  tierce 
slaves.  But  that  is  the  least  of  the  reasons  which  exclude  them 
from  my  choice,  and  fix  pay  choice  of  assistant  on  you.  Do  you 
el  what  I  told  you  of  the  danger  which  the  Dervish  declared 
no  bribe  1  could  offer  could  tempt  him  a  second  time  to  brave?" 

"I  remember,  now;  those  words  had  passed  away  from  my 
mind." 

"  And  because  they  had  passed  away  from  your  mind,  I  chose 
you  for  my  comrade.     I  need  a  man  by  whom  danger  is  scorned." 

"But  in  the  process  of  which  you  tell,  me  I  see  no  possible  dan- 
ger unless  the  ingredients  you  mix  in  your  caldron  have  poisonous 
fumes." 

"  ii  is  not  that.     The  ingredients  1  use  are  not  poisons." 

"  What  other  danger  except  you  dread  your  own  Eastern  slaves? 
But  if  so,  swhy  lead  them  to  these  solitudes.'  and  if  so,  why  not 
bid  me  be  armed?  " 

"  The  Eastern  slaves,  fulfilling  my  commands,  will  wait  for  my 
summons  where  their  eyes  cannot  see  what-  we  do.     The  danger  is 
kind  in  which  the  boldest  son  of  the  East  would  be  more 
s  than  the  daintiest  Sybarite  of  Europe,  who  would 
shrink  from  a  panther  and  laugh  at  a  ghost.     In  the  creed  of  the 
Dervish,  and  of  all  who  adventure  into  that,  realm  of  nature  which 
losed  to  philosophy  and  open  to  magic,  there  are  races  in  the 
magnitude  of  space  unseen  as  animalcules  in  the  world  of  a  drop. 
For  the  tribes  of  the  drop  science  has  its  microscope.     Of  thehosts 
in  azure  Infinite,  magic  gains  sight,  and  through  them  gains 
mand  over  fluid  conductors  that  link  all  the  parts  of  creation. 
Of  these  races  some  are  wholly  indifferent  to  man,  some  benign  to 
him,  and  some  deadly  hostile.     In  all  the  regular  and  prescribed 
conditions  of  mortal' being  this  magic  realm  seems  as  blank  and 
tenantless  as  yon  vacant  air.     But  when  a  seeker  of  powers  beyond 
the  rude  functions  by  which  man  plies  the  clock-work,  that  measures 
his  hours  and  stops  when  its  chain  reaches  the  end  of  its  coil, 
strives  to  pass  over  those  boundaries   at  which  philosophy  says, 
'  Knowledge  ends,'  then  he  is  like  all  other  travelers  in  regions  un- 
known ;  he  must  propitiate  or  brave  the  tribes  that  are  hostile, 
must  depend  for  his  life  on  the  tribes  that  are  friendly.     Though 
your  science  discredits  the  alchemist's  dogmas,  your  learning  in- 
forms vow  that  all  alchemists  were  not  ignorant  impostors;  yet 


A    ST RANG B    STORY.  353 

those  who  'Ties  prove  them  to  have  been  the  nearest  allies 

to  your  practical  knowledge,  ever  hint  in  their  mystical  works  at 
the  reality  of  that  realm  which   is  open  to  magic — eve*  hint  that 
some  means  less  familiar  than  furnace  ami  hollows  are  essential  to 
him  who  explores  the  elixir  ef  life.     He  who  once  quaffs  thai  elixir 
obtains  in  his  very  veins  the  Bright  fluid  by  which  he  transmits 
the  force  of  his  will  to  agencies  dormant  in  nature 
seen  in  Hie  space.     And  "here,  as   he  passes  the  boundary  v. 
divides  his  allotted   and  normal   mortality  from  the  regions  and 
races  that   magic  alone  can  explore,  so  here  he  breaks  down  the 
n.ard   between   himself  am!  the  tribes  that  are  hostile.     Is  it 
not  ever  thus  between  man  and  man  '     Let  a  race,  the  most  gentle 
ami  timid  and  civilized,  dwell  on  one  side  a  river  or  mountain,  and 
her  have  home  in  the  region  beyond,  each,  if  it  pass  not  the  h> 
tervening  ba  Tier  between  them,  may  with  eaeh  live  in  peace! 
if  ambitious  adventurers  scale  the  mountain,  or  cross  the  river, 
with  designs   tq  subdue  and   enslave  the  populations  they  boldly 
invade,  then  a!!  the  invaded  rise  in  wrath  and  defiance — the  >■ 
hors  are  changed  into  foes.     A  d,  therefore,  this  process,  bj  tvhich 
a  simple  though   rare   materia!   of  nature  is   made  to  yield  to  a 
mortal  the  boon  ef  a  life  which  brings  with  its  glorious  resis 
to  Time,  desires,  and  faculties  to  subjecl  to  iis  service  beings  that. 
arth,  and  the  air.  and  the  deep,  has  ever  been  one  of 
the  same  peril  which  an  invader  must  brave  when  he  oross<  - 
hounds  of  Iks  nation.     By  this   key  alone  you  unlock  all  the  cells 
ist's  lore;    by  this  alone   understand  how  a  labor 
which  a  chemist's  crudest  apprentice  could  perform,  has  baffled  the 
giantf  children  of  science.     Nature,  thai 

stores  this  priceless  boon,  seems  to  shrink  from  conceding  it  to 
man — the  invisible  tribes  thai  abhor  him  oppose  themselves  to  the 
gain  that  mighl  gi  a  master.     The  duller  of  those,  who 

were  the  li  'S  of  old,  would  have  told  yon  how  son; 

trivial  1  for,  foiled   their  grand  hope  at  the  very  poi 

fruition  ;  some  doltish  mistake,  some  improvident  oversight;  a 

bur,  a  wild  overflow  in  the  quicksilver,  or  a  flaw  in 
the  bellows,  or  a  pupil,  who  had  but  to  replenish  the  fuel,  fell  asleep 
by  the  furnace.     The   invisible  foes   seldom    vouchsafe  to  m 
themselves  visible  where  they  can  frustrate  the  bungler  as  they 
mock  .Is  from  their  ambush.     But  the  mightier  adventurers, 

equally. foiled   in   despite  of  their  patience  and  skill,  would  have 
said,  '  Not   with  us  rests  the  fault:   we  uegle 
failed  from  no  oversight.       Bu   eut  from  the  caldron  dre 
arose,  and  ma  dismayed  and  banted  us.'     £ 

then,  is  the  danger  which  seems  so  appalling  to  a  SOU  of  the  Mast, 
as  it  seemed  to  a  seer  in  the  dark  age  of  Europe,  lint  we  can 
deride  all  lis  threats,  you  audi.  Formyself,  I  own  frankly  I  sake 
all  the  safety  that  the  charma  and  resources  of  magic  bestow.  Yon, 
for  your  safeiv.  he.  mltured  and  disciplined  reason  which 

83 


354  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

reduces  all  phantasies  to  nervous  impressions,  and  I  rely  on  the 
courage  of  one  who  has  'questioned  urtquailing  the  Luminous 
Shadow,  and  wrested  from  the  hand  of  the  magician  himself  the 
wand  which  concentred  the  wonders  of  will !  " 

To  this  strange  and  long  discourse  I  listened  without  inter- 
ruption, and  now  quietly  answered, 

"I  do  not.  merit  the  trust  you  affect  in  my  courage;  but  I  am 
now  on  my  guard  against  the  cheats  of  the  fancy,  and  the  fumes  of 
a  vapor  can  scarcely  bewilder  the  brain  in  the  open  air  of  this 
mountain-land.  1  believe  in  no  races  like  those  which  you  tell  me 
lie  viewless  in  space,  as  do  gases.  I  believe  not  in  magic ;  1  ask- 
not  us  aids,  and  I  dread  not  its  tenors,  for  the  rest  1  am  confident 
of  one  mournful  courage — the  courage  that  comes  from  despair.  I 
submit  to  your  guidance,  whatever  it  be,  as  a  sufferer  whom  coll 
doom  to  the  gratis  submits  to  the  quack,  who  says,  'Take  my 
specific  and  live!'  My  life  is  naught  in  itself;  my  life  lives  in 
another.  You  ami  I  are  both  brave  from  despair;  you  would  turn 
death  from  yourself,  I  would  turn  death  from  one  I  love  more  than 
myself.  Both  know  how  little  aid  we  can  win  from  the  colleges, 
and  both,  iherefure,  turn  to  the  promises  most  audaciously  cheer- 
ing :  Dervish  or  magician,  alchemist  or  phantom,  what  care  you 
and  I  i  And  if  they  fail  us,  what  then  .'  They  cannot  fail  us 
more  than  ges  do  !  " 


CHAPTER    LXXX1II. 

T-  e  gold  has  been  gained  with  an  easy  labor.  I  knew  whereto 
seek  for  it,  whether  under  the  turf  or  in  the  bed  of  the  creek.  But 
Margrave's  eyes,  hungrily  gazing  round  every  spot  from  which  the 
ore  was  uisburied,  could  not  detect  the  substance  of  which  he 
knew  the  outward  appearance.  I  had  begun  to  believe  that  even 
in  the  description  given  to  him  of  this  material  he  had  been  credu- 
lously duped,  and  "that  no  such  material  existed;  when  coi 
back  from  the  bed  of  the  watercourse,  I  saw  a  faint  yellow  gleam 
amidst  tie  roots  of  a  giant  parasite  plant,  the  leaves  and  bibs: 
of  which  climbed  up  the  sides  of  the  cave  with  its  antediluvian 
relics.  The  -learn  was  the  gleam  of  gold,  and  on  removing  the 
loose  earth  round  the  roots  of  the  plant  we  came  on— No,  I  will 
not— I  dare  not  describe  it.  The  gold-digger  would  cast  it  aside, 
the  naturalist  would  pause  not  to  heed  it,  and  did  I  describe  it, 
and  chemistry  deign  to  subject  it  to  analysis,  could  chemistry  alone 
detach  or  discover  its  boasted  virtues  ? 

Its  particles,  indeed,  are  very  minute,  not  seeming  readily   to 
crystallize  with  each  other,  each  in  itself  of  uniform  shape  and 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  855 

size,  spherical  as  the  egg  which  contains  the  germ  of  life,  and  small 

as  the  egg  from  which  the  life  of  an  insect  may  quicken. 
But  Margrave's  keen  eye  caught  sighft  of  the  atoms  upcast  by 

the  light  of  the  moon.  He  exclaimed  to  me,  "Found!  I  shall 
live!"  And  then,  as  lie  gathered  up  the  grains  with  tremulous 
hands,  he  called  out  to  the  Veiled  Woman,  hitherlo  still  seated 
motionless  on  the  crag.  At  his  word  she  rose^and  went  to  the 
place  hard  by,  where  the  fuel  was  piled,  busying  herself  there.  I 
had  no  lei8Ure  to  heed  her.  1  continued  my  search  in  the  soft  and 
yielding  soil  that  time  and  the  decay  of  vegetable  life  had  accumu- 
lated over  the  Pro-Adamite  strata  on  which  the  arch  of  the  cave 
rested  its  mighty  keystones. 

"When  we  had  collected  of  these  particles  about  thrice  as  much 
as  a  man  might  bold  in  his  hand,  we  seemed  to  have  exhausted 
their  bed.  We  continued  still  to  find  gold,  but  no  more  of  the 
delicate  substance  to  which,  in  our  sight,  gold  was  as  dross. 

"Enough,"  then  said  Margrave,  reluctantly  desisting.  "What 
we  have  gained  already  will  suffice  for  a  life  thrice  as  long  as 
legend  attributes  to  Haroun.  I  shall  live — I  shall  live  through  the 
centuries." 

"  Forget  not  that  I  claim  my  share." 

"  Your  share — yours  !  True — your  half  of  my  life ! — it  is  true." 
lie  paused  with  a  low,  ironical,  malignant  laugh,  and  then  added, 
as  he  rose  and  turned  away,  "But  the  work  is  yet  to  be  done." 


CHAPTER    LXXXIV. 

While  we  had  thus  labored  and  found,  Ayesha  had  placed  the 

fuel  where  the  moonlight  fell  fullest  on  the  sward  of  the  table-land 
— a  part  of  it  already  piled  as  for  a  fire,  the  rest  of  it  heaped  con- 
fusedly close  at  hand — and  by  the  pile  she  had  placed  the  coffer. 
And  there  she  stood,  her  arms  lidded  under  her  mantle, her  dark  image 
seeming  darker  still  as  the  moonlight  whitened  all  the  ground  from 
which  the  image  arose  motionless.  Margrave  opened  his  coffer, 
the  Veiled  Woman  did  not  aid  him,  and  I  watched  in  silence, 
while  he  as  silently  made  his  weird  and  wizard-like  preparations. 


CHAPTER   LXXXV. 

Ox  the  ground  a  wide  circle  was  traced  by  a  small  rod,  tipped 
apparently  with  sponge  saturated  with  some  combustible,  naptha- 
like  fluid,  so  that  a  pale  lambent  flame  followed  the  course  of  the 
rod  as  Mai  grave  guided  it,  burning  up  the  herbage  over  which  it 
played,  and  leaving  a  distinct  ring,  like  that  which  in  our  lovely 


356  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

native  fable-talk  we  call  the  "  Fairy's  Ring,"  but  yet  more  visible* 
1)  cause  marked  in  phosphorescent  light.  On  the  ring  thus  formed 
were  placed  twelve  small  lamps,  fed  with  the  fluid  from  the  same 
vessel  and  lighted  by  the  same  rod.  The  light  emitted  by  the 
lamps  was  more  vivid  and  brilliant  than  that  which  circled  round 
the  ring.  , 

Within  the  circumference,  and  immediately  round  the  wood- 
pile, Margrave  traced  certain  geometrical  figures  in  which,  not 
without  a  shudder,  that  I  overcame  at  once  by  a  strong  effort  of 
will  in  murmuring  to  myself  the  name  of  "  Lilian,"  I  recognized 
the  interlaced  triangles  which  my  own  hand,  in  the  spell  enforced 
on  a.  sleep-walker  had  described  on  the  floor  of  the  wizard's  pa- 
vilion. These  figures  were  traced,  like  the  circle,  in  flame,  and 
at  the  point  of  each  triangle  (four  in  number)  was  placed  a  lamp, 
brilliant  as  those  on  the  ring.  This  task  performed,  the  caldron, 
based  on  an  iron  tripod,  was  placed  on  the  wood-pile.  And  then 
the  woman,  before  inactive  and  unheeding,  slowly  advanced,  knelt 
by  the  pile,  and  lighted  it.  The  dry  wood  crackled  and  the  flame 
burst  forth,  licking  the  rims  of  the  caldron  with  tongues  of  fire. 

Margrave  flung  into  the  caldron  the  particles  we  had  collected, 
poured  over  them  first  a  liquid  colorless  as  water,  from  the  largest 
of  the  vessels  drawn  from  his  coffer,  and  then,  more  sparingly, 
drops  from  small  crystal  vials,  like  the  vials  I  had  seen  in  the 
hand  of  Philip  Derval. 

Having  surmounted  my  first  impulse  of  awe,  I  watched  these 
proceedings,  curious  yet  disdainful,  as  one  who  watches  the  mum- 
meries of  an  enchanter  on  the  stage. 

"  If,"  thought  I,  "  these  are  hut  artful  devices  to  inebriate  and 
fool  my  own  imagination,  my  imagination  is  on  its  guard,  and  rea- 
son shall  not,  this  rime,  sleep  at  her  post." 

"  And  now,"  said  Margrave,  "  I  consign  to  you  the  easy  task 
by  which  you  are  to  merit  your  share  of  the  elixir.  It  is  my  task 
to  feed  and  replenish  the  caldron;  it  is  Ayesha's  to  heed  the  fire, 
which  must  not  for  a  moment  relax  in  its  measured  and  steady 
heat.  Your. task  is  the  lightest  of  all  ;  it  is  but  to  renew  from 
this  vessel  the  fluid  that  burns  inthe  lamps  and  on  the  ring.  Ob- 
serve, the  contents  of  the  vessel  must  be  thriftily  husbanded  ; 
there  is  enough,  but  not  more  than  enough  to  sustain  the  light  in 
the  lamps,  on  the  lines  traced  round  the  caldron  and  on  the  fur- 
ther ring  for  six  hours.  The  compounds  dissolved  in  this  fluid 
are  scarce — only  obtainable  in  the  East,  and  even  in  the  East 
months  might  have  passed  before  I  could  have  increased  my  sup- 
ply. I  had  no  months  to  waste.  Replenish,  then,  the  light  only 
when  it  begins  to  flicker  or  fade.  Take  heed,  above  all,  that  no 
part  of  the  outer  ring — no,  not  an  inch — and  no  lamp  of  the 
twelve,  that  are  to  its  zodiac  like  stars,  fade  for  one  moment  in 
darkness." 

I  took  the  crystal  vessel  from  his  hand. 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  357 

"  The  vessel  is  small/'  said  I,  "  and  what  is  yet  left  of  its  con- 
tents is  but  scanty ;  whether  its  drops  suffice  to  replenish  the 
lights  I  cannot  guess,  I  can  but  obey  your  instructions.  But  more 
important  by  far  than  the  light  to  the  lamps  and  the  circle,  which 
in  Asia  or  Africa  might  scare  away  the  wild  beasts  unknown  to 
this  land — more  important  than  light  to  a  lamp  is  the  strength  to 
your  frame,  weak  magician  !  What  will  support  you  through  six 
weary  hours  of  night-watch?" 

"  Hope!"  answered  Margrave,  with  a  ray  of  bis  old  dazzling 
smile.     "  Hope  !      I  shall  live — I  shall  live  through  the  oenturii 


CHAPTER  LXXXVL 

On  B  hour  passed  away;  the  fagots  under  the  caldron  burned 
clear  in  the  sullen  sultry  air.  The  materials  within  began  to 
seethe,  and  their  color,  at  first  dull  and  turbid,  changed  into  a  pale 
rose  hue  ;  from  time  to  time  the  Veiled  Woman  replenished  the 
lire,  after  she  had  done  so.  reseating  herself  close  by  the  pyre, 
with  her  head  bowed  over  lier  knees  and  her  face  hid  under  her 
veil. 

The  lights  in  the  lamps  and  along  the  ring,  and  the  triangles. 
now  began  to  pale.  1  resupplied  their  nutriment  from  the  crystal 
vessel.  As  yet  nothing  strange  startled  my  eye  or  my  ear  be- 
yond the  rim  of  the  circle.  Nothing  audible  save,  at  a  distance, 
the  musical,  wheel-like  click  of  the  locusts,  and,  further  still  in 
the  forest,  the  howl  of  the  wild  dogs  that  never  bark.  Nothing 
visible  but  the  trees  and  the  mountain  range  girding  the  plains 
silvered  by  the  moon,  and  the  arch  of  Mie  cavern,  the  flush  of 
wild  blooms  on  its  sides,  and  the  gleam  of  dry  bones  ou  its  floor 
where  the  moonlight  shot  into  the  gloom. 

The  second  hour  passed  like  the  first.  I  had  taken  my  stand 
by  the  side  of  Margrave,  watching  with  him  the  process  at  work 
in  the  caldron,  when  I  felt  the  ground  slightly  vibrate  beneath  my 
feet,  and,  looking  up,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  plains  beyond 
circle  were  heaving  like  the  swell  of  the  sea, and  as  if  in  the  air  it- 
there  was  a  perceptible  tremor. 

1  placed  my  hand  on  Margrave's  shoulder  and  whispered,  "To 
me  earth  and  air  seem  to  vibrate.     Do  they   seem  to  vibrate  to 

'•  I  know  not,  I  care  not,"  he  answered,  impetuously.  "  The 
essence  is  bursting  the  shell  that  confined  it.  Here  are  my  air 
and  my  earth  !  '  Trouble  me  not.  Look  to  the  circle — feed  the 
lamps  if  they  fail." 

I  passed  by  the  Veiled  Woman  as  I  walked  toward  a  place  in 
the  ring  in  which  the  llame  was  waning  dim.     And  1  whispered  to 


358  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

her  the  same  question  which  I  had  whispered  to  Margrave.  She 
looked  slowly  around,  and  answered,  "  So  it  is  before  the  Invisi- 
ble make  themselves  visible  !  Did  I  not  bid  him  forbear  1  Her 
head  again  drooped  on  her  breast,  and  her  watch  was  again  fixed 
on  the  fire. 

1  advanced  to  the  circle,  and  stooped  to  replenish  the  light 
where  it  waned.  As  I  did  so,  on  my  arm,  which  stretched  some- 
what beyond  the  line  of  the  ring,  I  felt  a  shock  like  that  of  elec- 
tricity. The  arm  fell  to  my  side  numbed  and  nerveless,  and  from 
my  hand  dropped,  but  within  the  ring,  the  vessel  that  contained 
the  fluid.  Recovering  my  surprise  or  my  stun,  hastily  with  the 
other  hand  I  caught  up  the  vessel,  but  some  of  the  scanty  liquid 
was  already  spilled  on  the  sward  ;  and  I  saw  with  a  thrill  of  dis- 
may that  contrasted,  indeed,  the  tranquil  indifference  with  which 
I  had  first  undertaken  my  charge,  how  small  a  supply  was  now 
left. 

I  went  back  to  Margrave  and  told  him  of  the  shock,  and  of  its 
copsequence  in  the  waste  of  the  liquid. 

"  Beware,"  said  he,  "that  not  a  motion  of  the  arm.  not  an  inch 
of  the  foot,  passes  the  verge  of  the  ring  ;  and  if  the  fluid  lie  thus 
unhappily  ^tinted,  reserve  all  that  is  left  for  the  protecting  circle 
and  the  twelve  outer  lamps.  See  how  the  Grand  Work  advances  ! 
how  the  hues  in  the  caldron  are  glowing  blood-red  through  the  film 
on  the  surface !" 

And  now  four  hours  of  the  six  were  gone  ;  my  arm  had  gradu- 
ally recovered  its  strength.  Neither  the  ring  nor  the  lamps  had 
again  required  replenishing;  perhaps  their  light  was  exhausted 
less  quickly,  as  it  was  no  longer  to  be  exposed  to  the  rays  of  the 
intense  Australian  moon.  Clouds  had  gathered  over  the  sky,  and 
though  the  moon  gleamed  at  times  in  the  gaps  that  they  left,  in  the 
blue  air,  her  beam  was  pore  hazy  and  dulled.  The  locusts  no 
longer  were,  heard  in  the  grass,  nor  the  howl  of  the  dogs  in  the 
forest.     Out  of  the  circle  the  stillness  was  profound. 

And  about  this  time  I  saw  distinctly  in  the  distance  a  vast  Eye  ! 
It  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  seeming  to  move  from  the  ground  at 
the  height  of  some  lofty  giant.  Its  gaze  riveted  mine  ;  my  blood 
curdled  in  the  blaze  from  its  angry  ball ;  and  now  as  it  advanced, 
larger  and  larger,  other  Eyes,  as  if  of  giants  in  its  train,  grew  out 
from  the  space  in  its  rear  :  numbers  on  numbers,  like  the  spear- 
heads of  some  Eastern  army,  seen  afar  by  pale  warders  of  battle- 
ments doomed  to  the  dust.  My  voice  long  refused  an  utterance  to 
my  awe  ;  at  length  it  burst  forth,  shrill  and  loud  : 

""  Look — look  !  Those  terrible  Eyes  !  Legions  on  legions. — 
And  hark  !  that  tramp  of  numberless  feet;  they -ay a  not  seen,  but 
the  hollows  of  earth  echo  the  sound  of  their  march  !" 

Margrave,  more  than  ever  intent  on  the  caldron,  in  which,  from 
time  to  time,  he  kept  dropping  powders  or  essences  drawn  forth 
from  his  coffer,  looked  up,  defyingly,  fiercely  : 


A    STRANGE    STORY.  359 

"  Ye  come,"  he  said  in  a  low  mutter,  his  once  mighty  voice 
sounding  hollow  and  laboring,  but  fearless  and  firm — ye  <.'ome.  not 
to  conquer,  vain  rebels! — ye,  whose  dark  chief  I  struck  down  at 
my  feet  in  the  tomb  where  my  spell  had  raised  up  the  ghost  of  your 
first  human  master,  the  Chaldee  !  Earth  and  air  have  their  armies 
still  faithful  to  me,  and  still  I  remember  the  war-song  that  sum- 
mons them  up  to  confront  you  !  Ayesha — Ayesha  !  recall  the 
Wild  troth  that  we  pledged  among  the  roses;  recall  the  dread 
bond  by  which  we  united  our  sway  over  hosts  that  yet  own  thee 
as  queen,  though  my  sceptre  is  broken,  my  diadem  reft  from  my 
brows  !" 

The  Veiled  Woman  rose  at  this  adjuration.  Her  veil  was  now 
withdrawn,  and  the  blaze  of  the  lire  between  Margrave  and  her- 
self flushed,  as  with  the  rosy  bloom  of  youth,  the  grand  beauty  of 
her  softened  face.  It  was  seen  detached,  as  it  were,  from  her 
dark-mantled  form  ;  seen  through  the  mist  of  the  vapors  which 
rose  from  the  caldron,  framing  it  round  like  the  clouds  that  are 
yieldingly  pierced  by  the  light  of  the  evening  star. 

Through  the  haze  of  the  vapor  came  her  voice,  more  musical, 
more  plaintive  than  I  had  heard  it  before,  but  far  softer  more 
tender:  still  in  her  foreign  tongue  ;  the  words  Unknown  to  me, 
and  yet  their  sense,  perhaps  made  intelligible  by  the  love,  which 
has  one  common  language  and  one  common  look  to  all  who  have 
loved — the  love  unmistakably  heard  in  the.  loving  tone,  unmistaka- 
bly seen  in  the  loving  face. 

A  moment  or  so  more,  and  she  had  come  round  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  tire  pile,  and.  bending  over  Margrave's  upturned  brow, 
kissed  it,  quietly,  solemnly  ;  and  then  her  countenance  grew  fierce, 
her  crest  rose  creel :  it  was  the  lioness  protecting  her  young.  She 
stretched  forth  her  arm  from  the  black  mantle,  athwart  the  pale 
front  that  now  again  bent  over  the  caldron;  stretched  it  toward 
the  haunted  and  hollow-sounding  space  beyond,  in  the  gesture  of 
one  whose  right  hand  has  iiie  sway  of  the  sceptre!  And  then  her 
voice  stole  on  the  air  in  the  music  of  a  chant  not  loud,  yet  far- 
reaching  ;  so  thrilling,  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  solemn,  that  1  could  at 
once  comprehend  how  Legend  united  of  old  the  spell  of  enchant- 
ment with  the  power  of  song.  All  that  I  recalled  of  the  effects 
winch  in  the  former  time  Margrave's  strange  chants  had  produced 
on  the  ear  thai  they  ravished  and  the  thoughts  they  confused  was 
but  as  the  wild  bird's  imitative  carol  compared  to  the  depth,  and 
iiie  art,  and  the  soul  of  the  singer,  whose  voice  seemed  endowed 
with  a  charm  to  enthrall  all  the  tribes  of  creation,  though  the  lan- 
8  it  used  for  that  charm  might  to  them,  as  to  me,  be  unknown. 
As  I  lie  song  ceased  I  heard  from  behind  sounds  like  those  I  had 
.  ia  the  spaces  before  me:  the  tramp  of  invisible  feet,  the 
whirr  of  invisible  wings,  as  if  armies  were  marching  to  aid  against 
armies  in  march  to  destroy. 

"Look  not  in  front  nor  around,"  said  Ayesha.     "  Look,  like  him. 


360  •  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

on  the  caldron  below.  The  circle  and  the  lamps  are  yet  brighf;  I 
will  tell  thee  when  their  light  again  tails." 

I  dropped  my  eyes  on  the  caldron. 

"  See,"  whispered  Margrave,  "the  sparkles  at  last  begin  to  arise, 
and  the  rose-hues  to  deepen;  signs  that  we  near  the  last  process. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

The  fifth  hour  had  passed  away,  when  Ayesha  said  to  me,  "Lo! 
tin-  circle  is  fading;  the  Lamps  grow  dim.     Look  now  without  fear 
oii  the  space  beyond ;  the  Eyes  that  appalled  thee  are  again  lost  in 
lightnings  that  fleet  back  into  cloud." 
]  looked  up,  and  the  spectres  had  vanished.     The  sky  wastinged 
with  sulpureous  hue,  the  red  and  the  black  intermixed!     I  replen- 
ished the  lamps  and  the  ring  in  front,  thriftily,  needfully  ;  but  when 
:c  i"  the  sixth  lamp,  not    a   drop  in   the   vessel  that  I'rd  them 
was  left.     In  a  vague  dismay  I  n$w  looked  roi 
wide  circle  in  rear  of  the  two  bended  figures  intent  on  the  caldron. 
thai   disk  the  light  was  already  broken,  here  and  there 
flickering  up,  here  and  there  dying  down  ;   the  ps  in  that 

ill  twinkled,  but  faintly,  as  iking  last 

from  the  dawn  of  day.  But  it  was  not  the  fadingshine  in  that  half 
of  ll:-  ling  which  daunted  my  eye  and  quickened  with  terror 

the  pulse  of  my  heart  ;  the  ibish-land  beyond  was  oil  fire.  From 
the  back-ground  of  the  forest  rose  the  flame  and  the  smoke;  the 
smoke  there  still  half-smothering  the  flame.  Kut  along  the  width 
of  the  glasses  and  heritage,  between  the  verge  of  the  forest  and  ihe 

bed  of  the  water  creek  just  below  the  raised  platform  from  which  I 
.nation,  the  fire  was  advi  -avc  upon 

wave,  clear  and  red  against  the  a  i  f  rock  behind  :    as  the 

rush  of  a  flood  through  the  mists  of  some  Alp  crowned  with  light- 
nings. 

Roused  from  my  si'ui  at  the  iirst  sight   of  a  danger  not  foreseen 
by  the  mind  I  had  steeled  against  far  rarer  portents  of  nature,  1 
cared  no   more  for  the  lamps  ai.d  the  circle.     Hurrying  back  to 
'.a,  1  exclaimed,  "The  phantoms  have  gone  from   the  sp 

■  hat  incantation  or  spell  can  arm  d  march  of 

the  f(  q  in  the  rear  .'     While  we  gazed  on  the  Caldron 

of  Life,  behind  us,  unheeded,  behold  the  Destroj 

Ayesha  looked  and  made  no  reply,  but,  as  by  involuntary  instinct, 
bowed  her  majestic  head,  then  rearing  it  erect,  placed  herself  yet 
more  immediately  before  the  wasted  form  of  tl  magician 

(he  still  bending  over  the  caldron,  and  hearing  me  not  in  th 

f  his  watch)  :  placed  herself  before  him,  as  the 
bird  whose  first  care  is  her  fledgling. 


\ 

A    STKANGE    STORY.  361 

we  two  there  stood,  fronting  the  deluge  of  fire,  we  heard 
Margrave  behind  us.  murmuring  low,  "Sec  the* babbles  of  light, 
how  they  sparkle  and  dance — I  shall  live,  1  shall  live !  "  And  hie 
words  scarcely  died  on  our  ears  before,  crash  upon  crash,  came  the 
fall  of  the  age-long  trees  hrtbe  forest;  and  nearer,  all  near  us 
through  the  blazing  grasses,  the  hiss  of  the  serpents,  the  scream 
■  birds,  and  the  bellow  and  titomp  of  the  herds  plunging  wild 
through  the  billowy  red  of  their  pastu 

Aycsha  now  wotfnd  her  anus  around  Margrave,  and  wrenched 
him,  reluctant  and  struggling,  from  his  watch  over  the  seething 
caldron.     In  rebuke  of  his  angry  exclamations,  she  pointed  t< 

;i  of  the  fire,  spoke  in  sorrowful  tones  a  few  words  in  her  own 
language,  and  then,  appealing  to  me  in  English,  said  : 

"  1  tell  him  thai  here  the  Spirits  who  oppose  us  have  summoned 
a  foe  that  is  deaf  to  my  voice,  and — " 

"And,"  exclaimed  Maygrave,  no  longer  with  gasp  and  effort, 
bul  with  the  swell  of  a  voice  which  drowned  all  the  discord 
terror  i  od  of  agony  sent  forth  tV-  burning  below 

—"and  this  witch,  whom  1  trusted,  is  a  vile  slave  istor, 

ii   than  my  life.    She  thinks  thai  in  life  I 
should  scorn  and  forsake  her.  that    in  death  I   should  die  in  her 
!     Sorceress,  avaunl  !     Art.  thou  useless  and  powerless  now 
when  eemost?    Go!  Let  the  world  be  one  funeral  p 

What  to  me  is  the  world  if  i  perish  I     My  world  is  my  life.     Thou 

is  here,  thai  all  the  strength  left  me 
tiiis  nighl  will  die  down,  like  the  lamps  in  the  circle,  unless  the 
elixir  restore  it.  Bold  friend,  spurn  that  sorceress  away.  Hours 
ye!  ere  those  flames  can  assail  us!  A  few  minutes  more,  and  life 
to  your  Lilian  and  iY 

Tims  having  said.  Margrave  turned  from  us.  and  cast,  into  the 

I  essence  yet  left  in  his  empti 
Ayesha  silently  drew  her  black  veil  ovi  id  turned, 

with  the  i  loved,  from  the  terror  he  scorned,  to  share  ii 

hope  that  he  cherished. 

Thus  left  alone,  with    my  reason  di:  banted,  1 

surve]  calmly  t\  ii  of  the  actual  peril  with  which  We 

. 
le,  all  the  Bush-land   behind,  almosl  up  to  the  bed  of  the 
creek,  was  on  [ire;  hut  thegrasses,  through  which  the  flat 

:<.<'d  at  the  opposite  ma 
pools  were  si  ill,  at  intervals,  left   in  the   bed  of  the  creek,  shining 
treoiu  waves  of  lire,  in  the  glare  reflected  from  the  burn- 

ing land;  and  even  where  the  water  failed,  the  stony  course  of 

exhausted    rivulet    was    a   harrier  against  the  march  o1 
conflagration.     Thus,  unless  the  wind,  now   still,  should  rise,  and 
waft  some  sparks  to  the  parched, combustible  herbage  immedii 
aroui  :  were  saved  from  the  tire,  and  our  work  mighl  yet  be 

achii  . 


362  A   STRANGE    STORY. 

I  whispered  to  Ayesha  the  conclusion  to  which  I  came. 

"  Thickest  thou,"  she  answered,  without  raising  her  mournful 
head,  "  that  the  agencies  of  Nature  are  the  movements'  of  chance. 
The  Spirits  I  invoked  to  his  aid  are  leagued  with  the  hosts  that 
assail.     A  Mightier  than  I  am  has  doomed  him  !  " 

Scarcely  had  she  uttered  these  words  before  Margrave  exclaim- 
ed, "  Behold  how  the  Rose  of  the  alchemist's  dream  enlarges  its 
bloom  from  the  folds  of  its  petals  !     I  shall  live,  I  shall  live  !  " 

I  looked,  and  the  liquid  which  glowed  in  the  caldron  had  now 
taken  a  splendor  that  mocked  all  comparisons  borrowed  from  the 
lustre  of  gems.  In  its  prevalent  color  it  had,  indeed,  the  dazzle 
and  flash  of  the  ruby ;  but  out  from  the  mass  of  the  molten  red 
broke  coruscations  of  all  prisma!  hues,  shooting,  shifting,  in  a  play 
that  made  the  wavelets  themselves  seem  living  things  sensible  of 
their  joy.  No  longer  was  there  scum  or  film  upon  the  surface ; 
only  ever  and  anon  a  light  rosy  vapor  floating  up,  and  quick  lost 
in  the  haggard,  heavy,  sulphurous  air,  hot  with  the  conflagration 
rushing  toward  us  from  behind.  And  these  coruscations  formed 
on  the  surface  of  the  molten  ruby  literally  the  shape  of  a  Rose* 
its  leaves  made  distinct  in  their  outlines  by  sparks  of  emerald,  and 
diamond,  and  sapphire. 

Even  while  gazing  on  this  animate  liquid  lustre  a  buoyant  de- 
light seemed  infused  into  my  senses;  all  terrors  conceived  before 
were  annulled ;  the  phantoms,  whose  armies  had  filled  the  wide 
spaces  in  front,  were  forgotten  ;  the  crash  of  the  forest  behind  was 
unheard.  In  the  reflection  of  that  glory  Margrave's  wan  cheek 
seemed  already  restored  to  the  radiance  it  wore  when  I  saw  it  first 
in  the  frame-work  of  bloom. 

As  I  gazed,  thus  enchanted,  a  cold  hand  touched  my  own. 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  Ayesha,  from  the  black  veil,  against  which 
the  rays  from  the  caldron  fell  blunt  and  absorbed  into  Dark. 
•'  Behind  us  the  light  of  the  circle  is  extinct,  but  there  we  are 
guarded  from  all  save  the  brutal  and  soulless  destroyers.  But, 
re  ! — but,  before  ! — see  !  two  of  the  lamps  have  died  out ! — see 
the  blank  of  the  gap  in  the  ring!  Guard  that  breach — there,  the 
demons  will  enter  !  " 

"  Not  a  drop  is  there  left  in  this  vessel  by  which  to  replenish 
the  lamps  on  the  ring." 

"  Advance,  then  ;  thou  hast  still  the  light  of  the  soul,  and  the 
demons  may  recoil  before  a  soul  that  is  dauntless  and  guiltless.  If 
not,  Three  are  lost ! — as  it  is,  One  is  doomed." 

Thus  adjured,  silently,  involuntarily,  I  passed  from  the  Veiled 
Woman's  side,  over  the  sere  lines  on  the  turf  which  had  been  traced 
by  the  triangles  of  light,  long  since  extinguished,  and  toward  the 
verge  of  the  circle.  As  I  advanced,  overhead  rushed  a  dark  cloud 
of  wings,  birds  dislodged  from  the  forest  on  fire,  and  screaming,  in 
dissonant  terror,  as  they  flew  towards  the  furthermost  mountains  : 
close  by  my  feet  hissed  and  glided  the  snakes,  driven  forth  from  their 


A   STRANGE   STORY.  363 

blazing  coverts,  and  glancing  through  the  ring,  anscared  by  its 
waning  lamps;  all  undulating  by  me,  bright-eyed  and  hissing  ; 
made  inocuous  by  fear:    even  the  terrible  Death-adder,  which  I 

trampled  on  as  I  halted  at  the  verge  of  the  circle,  did  not  turn  to 
bite,  hut  crept  harmless  away.  1  halted  at  the  gap  between  the 
two  dead  lamps,  and  bowed  my  head  to  leek  again  into  the  crystal 
vessel.  Were  there,  indeed,  no  lingering  drops  yet  left,  if  but  to 
recruit  the  lamps  for  some  priceless  minutes  more?  As  1  thus 
siood.  light  into  the  gap  between  the  two  dead  lamps,  strode  a 
gigantic  Foot.  All  the  rest  of  the  form  was  unseen  ;  only,  as 
volume  after  volume  of  smoke  poured  on  from  the  burning  land 
behind,  it  seemed  as  if  one  great  column  of  vapor,  eddying  round, 
settled  itself  aloft  from  the  circle,  and  that  out  from  thai  column 
strode  the  giant  Foot.  And  as  strode  the  Foot,  so  with  it  came, 
like  the  sound  of  its  bread,  a  roll  of  muttered  thunder. 

I  recoiled,  with  a  cry  thai  rang  loud  through  the  lurid  air. 

'•  Courage  !"  said  the  voice  of  Ayesha.  "  Trembling  soul,  yield 
not  an  inch  to  the  demon  !  " 

At  (lie  charm,  the  wonderful  charm  in  the  tone  of  the  Veiled 
Woman's  voice,  my  will  seemed  to  take  a  force  more  sublime  than 
its  own.  I  folded  my  arms  on  my  breast,  and  stood  as  if  rooted 
to  the  spot,  confronting  the  column  of  smoke  and  the  stride  of  the 
giant  Foot.     And  the  Foot  halted,   mw 

Again,  in  the  momentary  hush  of  that  suspense,  I  heard  a  voice — - 
s  Margrave's. 

"The  last  hour  expires — the  work  is  accomplished!  .  Come! 
come! — aid  me  to  take  the  caldron  from  the  tire — and  quick  !  or 
a  drop  may  be  wasted  in  vapor,  the  Elixir  of  Life,  from  the 
caldron  !  " 

Ar  that  cry  I  receded,  and  the  Foot  advanced. 

And  at  that  moment,  suddenly,  unawares,  from  behind,  J  was 
stricken  down.  Over  me.  as  1  lay,  swept  a  whirlwind  of  trampling 
hoofs  and  glancing  horns.  Tiie  herds,  in  their  flight  from  the 
burning  pastures,  had  rushed  over  the  bed  of  the  watercourse — 
scaled  the  slopes  id'  the  banks.  Snorting  and  bellowing,  they 
plunged  their  blind  way  to  the  mountains.  One  cry  alone  more 
wild  titan  their  own  savage  blare  pierced  the  reek  throng:;  which 
the  Brute  Huricane  swept.  At  that  cry  of  wrath  and  despair  1 
struggled  to  rise,  again  dashed  to  the  earth  by  the  hoofs  and  the 
horns.  Bui  was  ii  the  dream-like  deceit  of  my  reeding  senses,  or 
did  I  see  that  giant  Fool  stride  past  through  the  (dose-serried  ranks 
id' the  maddening  herds.'  Did  !  hear,  distinct  through  all  the 
huge  uproar  of  animal  terror,  the  roll  of  low  thunder  which  follow- 
ed the  stride  of  that  Fool  .' 


364  A   STRANGE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVIII. 


When  my  sense  had  recovered  its  shock,  and  my  eyes  looked 
dizzily  round,  the  charge  of  the  beasts  had  swept  by  ;  and  of  all 
the  wild  tribes  which  had  invaded  the  magical  circle,  the  only  lin- 
gerer was  the  brown  Death-adder,  coiled  close  by  the  spot  where 
my  head  had  rested.  Beside  the  extinguished  lamps  which  the 
hoofs  had  confusedly  scattered,  the  fire,  arrested  by  the  water- 
course, had  consumed  the  grasses  that  fed  it,  and  there  the  plains 
stretched  black  and  desert  as  the  Phlegnean  field  of  the  Poet's 
Hell.  But  the  fire  still  raged  in  the  forest  beyond — white  flames, 
soaring  up  from  the  trunks  of  the  tallest  trees,  and  forming,  through 
ellen  dark  of  (he  smoke-reek,  innumerable  pillars  of  fire,  like 
the  halls  in  the  City  of  Fiends. 

Gathering  myself  up,  I  turned  my  eyes  from  the  terrible  pomp 
of  the  lurid  forest,  and  Looked  fearfully  down  on  the  hoof-trampled 
sward  for  my  two  companions. 

i  saw  the  dark  image  of  Aycsha  stall  seated,  still  bending,  as  I 
had  seen  it  last.  1  saw  a  pale  hand  feebly  grasping  the  rim  of  the 
ical  caldron,  which   lay,  hurle  I  from  its  tripod  by  the 

rush  oftlie  beasts, yards  away  from  the  dim  fading  embers  of  Hie 
scattered  word  pyre.  I  saw  the  faint  writhings  of  a  frail,  wasted 
frame,  over  which  the  Veiled  Woman  was  bending.  I  saw,  as  I 
moved  wirh  bruised  limbs  to  the  place,  (dose  by  the  lips  of  the 
dying  magician,  the  flash  of  the  ruby-like  s  spilled  on  the 

sward,  and.  meteor-like,  sparkling  up  from  the  torn  tufts  of  herb 

I'now  reached  Margrave's  side,  bending  over  him  as  the  Veiled 
Woman  bent;   and  as  I   sought  gent i;  ■  liiui,  he  turned  his 

faltering  out,  "  Touch  me  not,  rob  me  not.  You 
th  me!  Never — never.  These  glorious  drops  are  all 
mine!  Die  all  else  !  I  will  live — I  will  live!"  Writhing  him- 
roni  my  pitying  arms,  lie  plunged  his  face  amidst  the  beauti- 
ful, playful  flame  of  the  essence,  as  if  to  lap  the  elixir  with  lips 
.  from  its  intolerable  burning.  Suddenly,  with  a  low 
shriek,  he  fell  back,  his  face  upturned  to  mine,  and  on  that  face 
unmistakably  reigned  D,eath. 

Then  Ayesha  tenderly,  silently  drew  the  young  head  to  her  lap, 
and  it  vanished  from  my  sight  behind  the  black  veil. 

I  knelt  beside  her,  murmuring  some  trite  words  of  comfort;  but 
she  heeded  me  not,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  as  the  mother  who 
cradles  a  child  to  sleep.  Soon  the  fast  flickering  sparkles  of  the 
lost  elixir  died  out  en  the  nd    with  their    last  sportive 

diamond-like  tremble  of  light,  up,  in  all  the  suddenness  of  Austra- 
lian day.  rose  the  sun,  lifting  himself  royally  above  the  mountain- 
tops,  and  fronting  the  meaner  blaze  of  the  forest  as  a  young  king 

t 

V 


A    STRANGE   STORY.  365 

fronts  his  rebels.  And  as  there,  where  the  hush  fires  had  ravaged, 
all  was  a  desert,  so  there,  where  their  fury  had  not  spread,  all  was 
a  garden.  Afar,  at  the  fool  of  the  mountains,  the  fugitive  herds 
were  grazing;  the  cranes,  flocking  hack  to  the  pools,  renewed  the 
strangegrace  of  their  gambols;  and  the  great  kingfisher,  whose  h 
half  in  mirth,  half  in  mockery,  leads  the  choir  thai  welcome  the 
morn — which  in  Europe  is  night — alighted  hold  on  the  roof  of  the 
cavern,  whose  floors  were  still  while  with  the  hones  of  races  extinct 
before,  formed  to  ••  walk  erect  and  togaze  upon  the  stars,"  ros — 
so  helpless  through  instincts,  so  royal  through  Sou! — rose  Man  ! 
But  thereon  the  ground  where  the  dazzling  elixir  had  wasted 

irtues,  there  the  herbage  already  had  a  freshness  ^'{'  verdure 
which,  amidsl  the  duller  sward  around  it.  was  like  an  oasis  of 
green  in   i  .     And  there  wild  flowers,  whose  chill  hues  the 

eye  would  have  scarcely  distinguished  the  day  before,  dow  glittered 
forth  in  blooms  of  unfamiliar  beauty     Toward  that  spot  were  ai- 

■d  myriads  iA'  happy  insects,  whose  hum  of  intense  joy  was 
musically  loud.  But  the  form  of  the  life-seeking  sorcerer  lay  rigid 
and  stark  ;  blind  to  the  bloom  of  the  wild  flowers,  '.leaf  to  the  glee 
of  the  insects;  one  hand  still  resting  heavily  on  the  rim  of  the 
emptied  caldron,  and  the  race  siill  hid  behind  the  Black  Veil. 
What!  the  Wondrous  elixir,  sought  with  such  hope  and' well-nigh 
achieved  through  such  dread,  fleeting  back  to  the  earth  from  which 
its  material  was  drawn,  to  give  bloom,  indeed,  but  to  herbs, — joy, 
indeed,  but  to  insects  ! 

And  now  in  the  flash  of  the  sun  slowly  wound  up  the  slopes  that 

o  the  circle  the  same  barbaric  procession  which  had  sunk  into 
the  valley  under  the  ray  of  the  moon.     The  armed  men  came  first, 

art  and  tall,  their  vests  brave  with  crimson  and  golden  hue. 
their  weapons  gayly  gleaming  with  holiday  silver.  After  them,  the 
Black  Litter.  As  they  came  to  the  place,  Ayesha,  not  pi 
head,  spoke  to  them  in  their  own  Eastern  tongue.  A  wail  was  their 
answer.  The  armed  men  bounded  forward,  and  the  bearers  left 
the  lit 

All  gathered  round  the  dead  form  with  the  face  concealed  under 

veil;  all  knelt,  and  all  wept.     Par  in  the  distance,  at  the 

of  the  blue  mountains,  a  crowd  of  the  savage  natives  had  risen 

up  as  if  from  the  earth;    they  stood  motionless, leaning  on  their 

clubs  and  spears,  and  looking  toward  the  spot  on  which  we  were — 

strangely  thus  brought  into  the  landscape,  as  if  they,  too,  the  wild 

dwellers  on   the  verge  which   Humanity  guards  from  the  Brute, 

■  among  the  mourners  for  the  mysterious  Child   of  mysterious 

Nature  !      And  still  in  the  herbage  hummed  the  small  insects,  and 

still    from  the  cavern  laughed  the  greal   kingfisher.     I   said  to 

Ayesha,  "Farewell,  your  love  mourns  the  dead;  mine  calls  me  to 

the  living.     You  are  now  with  your  own  people;  they  may  console 

you  ;  say  if  I  can  assist." 

"  There  is  no  consolation  for  me!     What  mourner  can  lie  con- 


3(36  A    STRANGE    STORY. 

Soled  if  the  dead  die  forever  i  Nothing  for  him  is  left  but  a  grave ; 
that  grave  shall  be  in  the  land  where  the  song  of  Ayesha  first 
lulled"  him  to  sleep!  Thou  assist  ME — thou — the  wise  man  of 
Europe  !  From  me  ask  assistance.  What  road  wilt  thou  take  to 
thy  home  ?" 

"  There  is  but  one  road  known  to  me  through  the  maze  of  the 
solitude,  that  which  we  took  to  this  upland." 

"  On  that  road  Death  lurks  and  awaits  thee !  Blind  dnpe,  conldst 
thou  think  that  if  the  grand  secret  of  life  had  been  won,  he  whose 
head  rests  mi  my  lap  would  have  yielded  thee  one  petty  drop  of  the 
essence  which  had  filched  from  his  store  of  life  but  a  moment  1 
Me,  who  so  loved  and  so  cherished  him — me,  he  would  have  doom- 
ed to  the  pitiless  cord  of  my  servant,  the  Strangler,  if  my  death 
could  have  lengthened  a  hairbreadth  the  span  of  his  being.  But 
matters  to  me  his  erime  or  his  madness.'  I  loved  him — I 
1  i\r\  him  !" 

She  bowed  her  veiled  head  lower  and  lower  ;  perhaps,  under 
veil,  her  iipe  kissed  the  lips  of  the  dead.  Then  she  said, 
whisperingly  : 

"  Juma,  the ..Strangler,  whose  word  never  failed  to  his  master, 
whose  prey  never  slipped  from  bis  snare,  wails  thy  step  on  the 
road  to  ihy  home!  But  thy  death  cannot  now  profit  the  dead, 
the  beloved.  And  thou  hast  bad  pity  for  him  who  took  but  thine 
aid  to  design  thy  destruction.     His  life  is  lost,  thine  is  saved  !" 

She  spoke  no  more  in  the  tongue  that  I  could  interpret.  She 
spoke,  in  the  language  unknown,  a  few  murmured  words  to  her 
swarthy  attendants  ;  then  the  armed  men,  still  weeping,  rose,  and 
made  a  dumb. sign  to  me  to  go  with  them.  I  understood  by  the 
sigrf  that  Ayesha  bad  told  them  to  guard  me  on  my  way  ;  but  she 
:■  no  reply  to'my  parting  thanks. 


CHAPTER   LXXXIX. 

I  descended  into  the  valley  :  the  armed  men  followed.  The 
path,  oil  that  side  of  the  watercourse  not  reached  by  the  flames, 
wound  through  meadows  still  green,  or  amidst  groves  still  un- 
scathed. As  a  turning  in  the  way  brought  in  front  of  my  sight 
the  place  I  had  left  behind,  I  beheld  the  black  litrer  creeping  down 
the  descent,  with  its  curtains  closed,  and  the  Veiled  Woman  walk- 
ing by  its  side.  But  soon  the  funeral  procession  was  lost  to  my 
eyes,  and  the  thoughts  that  it  roused  were  erased,  The  waves  in 
man's  brain  are  like  those  of  the  sea.  rushing  on,  rushing  over  the 
wrecks  of  the  vessels  that  rode  on  their  surface  to  sink,  after 
storm,  in  their  deeps.     One  thought  cast  forth  into  the  future  now 


A    STRANGE    STORY.    '  367 

mastered  all  in  the  past.  "Was  Lilian  living  still  ?"  Absorbed 
in  the  gloom  of  that  thought,  hurried  on  by  the  goad  that  my 
heart,  in  its  tortured  impatience,  gave  to  my  footstep,  I  outstripped 
the  slow  stride  of  the  armed  men,  and.  midway  between  the  p 
I  had  left  and  the  home  which  I  sped  to,  came,  far  in  advance  of 
my  guards,  into  .the  thicket  in  which  the  bush  men  had  started  up 
in  my  path  on  the  night,  that  Lilian  had  watched  for  my  coming. 
The  earth  at  my  feet  was  rife  witii  creeping  plants  and  many  co- 
lored flowers,  the  sky  overhead  was  half  hid  by  motionless  pines. 
Suddenly,  whether  crawling  out  from  the  herbage  or  dropping 
down  from  the  trees,  by  my  side  stood  the  white-robed  and  skele- 
ton form — Ayesha's  attendant,  the  Strangler. 

I  sprang  from  him  in  shuddering,  then  halted  and  faced  him. — 
The  hideous  creature  crept  toward  me,  cringing  and  fawning, 
making  signs  of  humble  good-will  and  servile  obeisance.  Again 
I  recoiled — wrathful!  v.  loathingly  ;  turned  my  face  homeward  and 
fled  on.  I  thought  I  had  baffled  his  chase,  when,  just  at  the 
mouth  of  the  thicket,  lie  dropped  from  a  hough  in  my  path  close 
behind  me.  Before  I  could  turn,  some  dark  muffling  substance 
fell  between  my  sight  and  the  sun.  and  I  felt  a  fierce  Strain  at  my 
throat.  But  the  words  of  Ayesha  had  warned  me;  with  one  ra- 
pid hand  1  seized  the  noose  before  it  could  tighten  too  closely,  with 
the  other  1  tore  the  bandage  away  from  my  eyes,  ami,  wheeling 
round  on  the  dastardly  foe.  struck  him  down  with  one  spurn  of  my 
foot.  His  hand,  as  he  fell,  relaxed  its.hold  on  the  noose  :  1  freed 
my  throat  from  the  knot,  and  sprang  from  the  copse  into  the  broad 
sunlit  plain.  I  saw  no  more  of  the  armed  men  or  the  Strangler. 
Panting  and  breathless  1  paused  at  las:  before  the  fence,  fragrant 
with,  blossoms,  that  divided  my  home  from  the  solitude. 

The  windows  of  Lilian's  room  were  darkened — all  within  the 
house  seemed  still. 

Darkened  and  silenced  Home!  with  the  light  and  sounds  of  the 
jocund  day  all  around  it.  Was  there  yet  Hope  in  the  Universe  for 
me.'  AH  to  which  1  had  trusted  Hope,  had  broken  down  ;  the 
anchors  I  had  forged  for  her  hold  in  the  beds  of  the  ocean,  her 
stay  from  the  drifts  of  the  storm,  had  snapped  like  the  reeds  which 
pierce  the  side  that  learns  on  the  barb  of  their  points  and  confides 
in  tiie  strength  of  their  stems.  No  hope  in  the  baffled  resources  of 
i.ized  knowledge!  No  hope  in  the  daring  adventures  of 
Mind  into  regions  unknown  ;  vain  alike  the  calm  lore  of  the 
practised  physician  and  the  magical  arts  of  the  fated  Enchanfer! 
I  had  fled  from  the  commonplace  teachings  of  Nature,  to  explore 
in  her  Shadow-land  marvels  at  variance  with  reason.  Made  brave 
B  grandeur  of  love,  I  had  opposed  without  ([nailing  the  stride 
of  the  Demon,  and  my  hop.',  when  fruition  seemed  nearest,  had  been 
trodden  into  dust  by  the  hoofs  of  the  beast  !  And  yet,  all  the 
while,  I  had  scorned,  as  a  dream  more  wild  than  the  word  of  a 
sorcerer,  the   hope   that   the  old   man  and   child,  the  wise  and  the 


"a  strange  story. 

rant,  took  from  their  souls  as  inborn  !  Man  and  fiend  had  alike 
failed  <a  Mind  not  ignoble,  not  skilless,  not  abjectly  craven ;  alike 
failed  a  heart  not  feeble  and  selfish,  not  dead  to  the  hero's  devo- 
tion, willing  to  shed  every  drop  of  its  blood  for  a  something  more 
dear  than   an  animal's  life   for  itself !     What  remained — what 

hope? — man's   mind  and  man's  heart  thus  ex- 
hausting   their    all    with    no  other   result  but    despair?     What 
out  the   mystery  of  mysteries,  so   clear  to  the  sunrise  of 
ehildl  •  only  dunned  by  the  clouds  winch  col- 

li of  our  manhood  ?     Where  yet  was  hope  found 1 
the  soul;    in  its  everyday  impulse  to   supplicate  comfort  and 
river  of  soul,  wherever  the   heart  is  afflicted*  the 
obscured. 
he  words  of  Ayesha  rushed  over  me  :    "  What  mourner 
can  be  consoled  if  the  Dead  die  forever?"     Through  pulse 

une.  throbbed  that  dread  question.'    All   -  uround 

o  murmur  it.     And  i        a  Heaven, 

•easoning  shon 
up  all  within  and  without.  if  all  earthly  creal 

.  id  the  ins;  urges  the 

i  instinct  is  given  in 
vain. 
An  inct  that  leads  the 

i,  from  ti   .  .idly,  from  the 

rd  the  Ocean  of  D  bhe  source  of  its 

b .-  <  )cean. 
••_  K  If,"  said  1  1.    "  That  pi  ■ 

i  wise?     If 
so,   '.  soul.     But  He  une  to  th  i 

soul  but  what  he  aokno 
if  prayer.     In  my  awe,  in  my  rapture,  all  my  though 
fged  and  illumed  and.  exalted.     I  prayed — all  my  soul  se 

er.     All,  my  past,  with  it  ndpresumj  folly, 

;i   of  a  '■; 

■  pilgrimai 

if  a   soul 

-.  my  human  love  soared  beyond  its  bri< 
ror  and  sorrou.     Daring   not   to   ask  from  Heaven's  wisdom 
Lilian,   for  my  sake,  might  not  yet  pass  away -from  the  earth,  I 
pray-  ty  soul  might  be  fitted  to  bear  with  subinissi 

;•  might  ordain.     And  if,  surviving  her,  without 
no  beam  from  yon  material  sun  could  ever  warm  into  joy  a  m 

i  life— so  to  guide  my  steps  that  they  might  rejoin  her  at 
last,  and,  in  rejoining,  regain  forever! 

ivial  now  became  the  weird  riddles  that,  a  lit 
before,  had  been  clothed  in  so  solemn  an  awe.  What  ra; 
to  th  iterests  involved  in  the  clear  recognition  of  Soul 

Hereafter,— whether  or  not  my  bodily  sense,  for  a  moment,  ob- 


A    STRANGE    STORY,  369. 

scared  the  face  of  the  Nature,  I  should  one  day  behold  as  a  spirit  ? — 
Doubtless  the  sights  and  the  sounds  which  had  haunted  the  last 
gloomy  night,  the  calm  reason  of  Faber  would  strip  of  their  musi- 
cal seemingsj — the  Eyes  in  the  space  and  the  Foot  in  the  circle 
might  be  those  of  no  terrible  Demons,  but  of  the  Wild's  savage 
children  whom  I  bad  seen,  halting,  curious  and  mute,  in  the  light 
of  the  morning.  The  tremor  of  the  ground  (if  not,  as  heretofore, 
explicable  by  the  illusory  impression  of  my  own  treacherous  senses) 
might  be  but  the  natural  effect  of  elements  si  niggling  yet  under  a 
soil  unmistakably  charred  by  volcanoes.  The  luminous  atoms  dis- 
solved in  the  caldron  might  as  little  be  fraught  with  a  vital  elixir 
as  are  the  splendors  of  aaptha  or  phosphor.  As  it  was,  the  weird 
rite  had  no  magic  result.  The  magician  was  nut  rent  limb  from 
limb  by  the  fiends.  By  causes  as  natural  as  ever  extinguished  life's 
spark  in  the  frail  lamp  of  clay,  he  had  died  out  of  sight — under 
the  black  veil. 

What  mattered  henceforth  to  Faith,  in  its  far  grander  questions 
md  answers,  whether  Reason,  in  Faber,  or  Fancy,  in  me,  supplied 
the  more  probable  guess  at  hieroglyph  which,  if  construed  aright, 
was  but  a  word  of  small  mark  in  the  mystical  language  of  Nature? 
[f  all  the  arts  of  enchantment  recorded  by  Fable  were  attested  by 
"acts  which  Sages  were  forced  to  acknowledge,  Sages  would  sooner 
ir  later  find  some  cause  for  such  portents — not  supernatural.  But 
what  Sage,  without  cause  supernatural,  both  without  and  within 
dm,  can  guess  at  the  wonders  he  views  in  the  growth  of  a  blade 
)f  grass,  or  the  tints  on  an  insect's  wing?  Whatever  art  Man  can 
icbieve  in  his  progress  through  lime,  Man's  reason,  in  time,  can 
suffice  to  explain.  But  the  wonders  of  Clod  ?  These  belong  to  the 
[nfinite;  and  these.  (.)  Immortal  !  will  but  develop  new  Wonder  on 
vender,  though  thy  sight  lie  a  spirit's,  and  thy  leisure  to  track  and 
o  solve,  an  eternity. 

As  I  raised  my  face  from  my  elapsed  hands  my  eyes  fell  upon  a 
brm  standing  in  the  open  door-way.  There,  where  on  the  night  in 
vhich  Lilian's  long  struggle  for  reason  and  life  had  begun,  the  Lu- 
ninous  Shadow  had  been  beheld  in  the  doubtful  light  of  a  dying 
noon  and  a  yet  hazy  dawn  ;  there,  on  the  threshold,  gathering 
ound  her  bright  lock's  the  aureole  of  the  glorious  sun.  stood  Amy, 
he  blessed  child  !  And  as  I  gazed,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to 
lie  silenced  house,  and  thai  Image  of  Peace  on  its  threshold,  I 
ell  that  Hope  met  me  al  the  door — Hope  in  the  child's  steadfast 
yes — Hope  in  the  child's  welcoming  smile! 
*'  I  was  at  watch  for  you,"  whispered  Amy.  "  All  is  well !" 
<<  She  lives  still— she  lives  !  Thank  God— thank  God  !" 
"She  lives — she  will  recover!"  said  another  voice,  as  my  head 
unk  on  Faber's  shoulder.  "  For  some  hours  in  (he  night  her  sleep 
vas  disturbed — convulsed.  1  feared  then  the  worst.  Suddenly, 
ust  before  the  dawn,  she  called  out  aloud,  still  in  sleep, 


370  A    STRANGE   STORY 

"  'The  cold  and  dark  shadow  has  passed  away  from  me  and  from 
Allen — passed  away  from  ns  both  forever  !' 

"  And  from  that  moment  the  fever  left  her  ;  the  breathing  be- 
came soft,  the  pulse  steady,  and  the  color  stole  gradually  back  to 
her  cheek.  The  crisis  is  past.  Nature's  benign  Disposer  has  per- 
mitted Nature  to  restore  your  life's  gentle,  partner,  heart  to  heart, 
mind  to  mind — " 

"  And  soul  to  soul  !"  I  cried,  in  my  solemn  joy.  "  Above  as  be- 
low, soul  to  soul !"  Then,  at  a  sign  from  Faber,  the  Child  took 
me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  up  the  stairs  into  Lilian's  room. 

Again  those  dear  arms  closed  round  me  in  wife-like  and  holy 
love,  and  those  true  lips  kissed  away  my  tears  ; — even  as  now,>  at 
the  distance  of  years  from  that  happy  morn,  while  I  write  the  last 
words  of  this  Strange  Story,  the  same  faithful  arms  close  around 
me,  the  same  tender  lips  kiss  away  my  tears. 


run  bni». 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

The  render  will  here  observe  a  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Poyntz's  account 
and  Sir  Philip  Derval's  narrative.  According  to  the  former,  Louis  Grayle  wa-e 
tried  in  his  absence  from  England,  and  sentenced  to  three  years'  imprison- 
ment, which  his  flight  enabled  him  to  evade.  According  to^flie  latter,  Louis 
Qrayle  stood  his  trial,  and  obtained  an  acquittal.  .Sir  Phillip's  account  must, 
at  least,  he  nearer  the  truth  than  the  lady's,  because  Louis  Grayle  could  not, 
according  to  English  law,  have  been  tried  on  a  capital  charge  without  being 
present  in  court.  Mrs.  Poyntz  tells  her  story  rs  a  woman  generally  do0B  tell 
a  story — sure  to  make  a  mistake  where  she  touches  on  a  question  of  law : 
and — unconsciously  perhaps  to  herself — the  Woman  of  the  World  warps  the 
facts  in  her  narrative  so  as  to  save  the  personal  dignity  of  the  hero  who  has 
captivated  her  interest,  not  from  the  moral  odium  of  a  great  crime,  but  the 
debasing  position  of  a  prisoner  at  the  bar.  Allen  Fen  wick,  no  doubt,  pur- 
posely omits  to  notice  the  discrepancy  between  these  two  statements,  or  to 
animadvert  on  the  mistake  which,  in  the  eyes  of  a  lawyer,  would  discredit 
Mrs.  Poyntz's.  It  is  consistent  with  some  of  the  objects  for  which  Allen 
Fenwick  makes  public  his  Strange  Story,  to  invite  the  reader  to  draw  his  own 
inferences  from  the  contradictions  by  which,  even  in  the  most  commonplace 
matters  (and  how  much  more  in  any  tale  of  wonder!),  a  fact  stated  by  one 
person  is  made  to  dilfor  from  the  same  fact  stated  by  another.  The  rapidity 
with  which  a  truth  becomes  transformed  into  fable,  when  it  is  once  sent  on  it* 
travels  from  lip  to  lip,  is  illustrated  by  an  amusement  at  this  moment  in  fashion. 
The  amusement  is  this.  In  a  party  of  eight  or  ten  persons,  let  one  whiter 
to  another  an  account  of  some  supposed  transaction,  or  n  piece  of  iuveirmfc 
gossip  relating  to  absent  persons,  dead  or  alive  ;  let  the  person,  who  thus  lirsH 
hoars  the  story,  proceed  to  whisper  it.  as  exactly  as  be  can  remember  what  he' 
has  just  heard,  to  the  next;  the  next  docs  the  same  to  his  neighbor,  and  so  on, 
till  the  tale  has  run  the  round  of  4,hc  party.  Each  narrator,  as  soon  as  ho  has 
whispered  his  version  of  the  tale,  writes  down  what  he  has  whispered.  And 
though,  in  this  game,  no%ie  has  any  interest  to  misrepresent,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, each,  for  his  own  credit's  sake,  strives  to  repeat  what  ho  has  heard  as 
faithfully  as  ho  can,  iii  will  be  almost  invariably  found  that  the  story  told  by 
the  first  person  has  received  the  most  material  alterations  before  it  has  reached 
the  eighth  or  the  tenth.  Sometimes,  the  most  important  feature  of  the  whole 
narrative  is  altogether  omitted;  sometimes,  a  feature  altogether  new,  and 
preposterously  absurd,  has  been  added.  At  the  close  of  the  experiment  one 
is  tempted  to  exclaim,  "  How,  after  this,  can  any  of  those  portions  of  history, 
which  the  chronicler  took  from  hearsay,  be  believed  ?  "  But,  above  all,  does 
not  every  anecdote  of  scandal  which  has  passed,  not  through  ten  lips,  but 
perhaps  through  ten  thousand,  before  it  has  reached  us,  become  quite  as  per- 
plexing to  him  who  would  get  at  the  truth,  as  the  marvels  he  recounts  are  k» 
the  bewildered  reason  of  Fenwick  the  Sceptic' 

B.  BULWER  LYTTON. 


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